A Stiff Critique (25 page)

But why the hell had he been following me in the first place? He had never really answered that question, at least not to my satisfaction. And my own answers weren’t any more satisfying than his had been. If he’d really been following me in order to protect me, why single me out from the others? Did he know something that he thought put me in particular danger? That was a spooky idea. Almost as spooky as imagining Russell as the murderer himself. But if Russell was the murderer, what did he gain by following me?

My stream of consciousness continued to swirl and eddy as I drove south on Highways 580, 980 and 880 to the Jest Gifts warehouse in Oakland. Driving there had become more complicated after the 1989 earthquake wiped out the old 880 Cypress structure. At least the drive gave me time to think. And to worry. And to watch for Russell Wu in my rearview mirror. I still hadn’t caught sight of him by the time I pulled into the parking lot in back of the familiar row of ancient warehouses on Joslin Street.

I walked up to the door of the jest gifts warehouse, opened it cautiously and peeked in, hoping that Jean’s brother had left by now. Everything looked pretty much the same as usual. Boxes of gag gifts were stacked in metal shelving up to the twelve-foot ceilings. Workbenches were covered in piles of mailing boxes, stacks of forms and scattered gift items ranging from toothbrush earrings for the dentists to uh-huh ties for the psychotherapists.

But there were three people standing around the back workbench where there should have been two. Judy and Jean both had their arms crossed over their chests, and a tall red-haired man who just had to be Jean’s brother was jabbing his finger in their direction. Jean was tall and red-haired too. And muscular. That’s one of the reasons I had hired her for the warehouse work. She was good-natured as well, a good fit to work with short and stocky Judy Mulligan who drove most people, including myself, a little crazy with her constant conversation. But Jean seemed to enjoy working with Judy. She was a good listener.

Today, however, Jean looked like she had done a little too much listening. Her eyes were swollen and glistening.

The red-haired man turned in my direction as I walked in. Anger was evident on his florid face. I shut the door behind me. I had already let enough air-conditioned air escape.

“So who are you?” he demanded.

“My name’s Kate Jasper,” I replied evenly as I sized him up. He had to be at least six foot three. And it looked like muscles ran in the family, big muscles. “I own Jest Gifts. Who are you?”

“I’m Peter O’Donnell,” he snapped back. “I’m talking to my sister here, so why don’t you just—”

“Jean,” I broke in, keeping my tone even. “Do you want your brother to leave now?”

She nodded so violently that a matched pair of leftover tears jumped from her cheeks.

“Mr. O’Donnell, you’re trespassing,” I said. “Please leave.”

“Are you going to make me?” he snarled, pulling back his muscular shoulders. Then he added, “Are you saved?”

It took a moment to figure out what the last sentence meant. It didn’t seem to match the first one. And then I remembered Judy saying he was a born-again Christian. I tried to convince myself that Christians were supposed to be nonviolent as he strode toward me, his hands clenched into fists. When he was a couple of yards away, I took a deep breath and centered myself in a tai-chi stance, feet rooted to the floor, arms raised slightly. Ready.

“Mr. O’Donnell,” I said, keeping my voice low with an effort. “Either I’ll make you leave or the police will. And I’ll be happy to press assault charges if you so much as touch me. As well as charges for trespassing. It’s your choice.”

I watched as his legs came to an instant stop. His face grew redder, outshining his red hair now. And then suddenly, he unclenched his fists.

“I’ll leave,” he told me sullenly. He turned his gaze away from my face. “But only because Jesus himself tells me to.”

I nodded. If Jesus was telling him to leave, that was fine with me. As long as he got out. I stepped away from the doorway carefully, keeping my body centered and my arms raised.

Peter O’Donnell took his time walking past me. He opened the door, glared once more over his shoulder, and finally, he closed the door behind him. He was gone.

My legs melted into quivering rubber. And then I heard an explosion from behind me. I jumped and turned at the same time. But the explosion was only the sound of Judy and Jean clapping their hands.

“Thank you, Kate!” Jean shouted, a grin on her tear-streaked face. “You were incredible. Peter isn’t usually so crazy, but ever since he lost his job he’s been on this religious trip. Actually, it seemed to help him at first, to calm him down. But then when my parents decided to get a divorce, he really flipped. He keeps accusing everyone in the family of being bad Christians, and saying that we’ll all go to hell—”

“And Jean goes to church and everything,” Judy broke in indignantly. “Hell’s bells, what a wacko he is!”

“Judy asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t listen—”

“And then I called you—”

They kept talking and interrupting each other for a few minutes while I sucked in air and tried to calm my beating heart. To Judy and Jean I was a hero. Kate Rambo. If only they knew how Rambo’s legs were shaking. The only reason I’d stood up to Peter O’Donnell was that I was tired of being afraid. Afraid of Russell Wu. Afraid of whoever had murdered Slade Skinner. Afraid of crazy Christians—

“Will your brother bother you at home?” I asked, suddenly afraid for Jean too.

“No, he’s scared of my husband. He won’t bug me there.”

I thought of Jean’s husband, a man who probably weighed all of a hundred and forty pounds, and I smiled. Peter O’Donnell was just a bully. And one who scared easily. I only wished I’d known that earlier.

I spent the next couple of hours on Jest Gifts business. Earrings were still selling like hotcakes, Judy told me, and the manufacturer hadn’t delivered the new order on time. And there weren’t as many shark earrings in the boxes as there were on paper. And…

Back home after a long hot drive, I treated myself to a late lunch of cold canned chili and rice crackers. Then I put in a call to Carrie. I wanted to talk to her about Russell. But all I got was her answering machine, which made sense since I’d called her at home during working hours. I’d forgotten the time in my anxiety.

“This is Kate,” I recited for the machine. “Just wanted to talk. Nothing important.” Then I went back to my paperwork.

*

Carrie didn’t return my call until Tuesday evening. I should have been glad. I’d done a lot of Jest Gifts work in the meantime. The piles on my desk were even a little smaller than usual. But I hadn’t been able to rid my mind of Slade Skinner. Or Russell Wu. Apparently, Carrie had been mulling too.

“I believe we should visit Nan Millard as soon as possible,” she told me, her voice deep and serious.

“Why?”

“I am beginning to wonder if Nan really did see someone or something at Slade’s house on the day of his murder. She insinuated as much at the last meeting, although she retracted it later.” Carrie paused for a moment. “I told you I didn’t think Nan was of the right character to murder, but I wonder if she might not be capable of blackmail—”

“And blackmail is dangerous,” I finished for her, feeling a sudden pang. Even Nan wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to blackmail a murderer, would she?

“Blackmail is dangerous indeed,” Carrie agreed. “Though I certainly have no evidence that Nan has planned or executed such an act. But blackmail or not, I need to know if she truly saw something. I hoped the two of us might convince her to speak.”

“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,” I said. And then, feeling a pang of a different kind, I added hopefully, “Maybe we can have dinner at The Bodhi-Tree afterwards.”

Carrie was still dressed in her business suit when I got to her house. The navy blue didn’t do much for her caffe latte and cinnamon complexion, but it did seem to give her short body a certain authority. I wouldn’t argue with her while she was wearing that suit. Maybe Nan wouldn’t either.

“Don’t you think we should tell the Hutton police what Nan said about seeing something?” I asked as Carrie climbed in my Toyota. Somehow her blue suit had reminded me of the Hutton authorities.

“Nan didn’t really say she saw anything. She merely implied it.” Carrie frowned for a moment, looking even more formidable. “Why don’t we attempt to elicit the information first ourselves,” she suggested. “If Nan doesn’t respond, we can inform Police Chief Gilbert then.”

“All right,” I agreed as I backed out of her driveway. I didn’t particularly want to see the Hutton police again myself.

“Kate, did you notice the resemblance between Chief Gilbert and his two detectives?” Carrie asked a little further down the road.

The memory of the chief and the murder scene at Slade Skinner’s house blossomed in my mind’s eye. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and tried to remember the faces of the three men instead of Slade’s mangled head.

“That’s right,” I said once my brain obliged. “They all looked like British aristocracy.”

“Including the African-American,” Carrie added.

“Must be a job requirement.”

She laughed. “Perhaps it is in Hutton. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hey, what happens in the end of
Cool Fallout
?” I asked. I didn’t want to think about the Hutton police any longer.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve gotten to the section where the mysterious someone is calling all the old commune members. You know, the banker, the real estate agent, the nun and the guy dying of AIDS. But I still have two hundred pages to go. Is Warren Lee behind it all?”

“You’ll have to keep reading,” Carrie said with a low chuckle. “The suspense is part of the enjoyment. I told you Slade Skinner was a good writer.”

“But I don’t have time,” I insisted. “I want to know who’s behind the scheme. Is it Moslem Fundamentalists?” I glanced over at Carrie quickly, hoping to catch the answer in her eyes.

But all I saw was a twinkle. “Why would you guess Moslem Fundamentalists?” Carrie asked.

“Everyone else loves to blame them for conspiracies. Why not Slade?”

“I’ll tell you this much,” Carrie gave in. “You’re on the wrong track with the Moslems.”

“Is it environmentalists, then?” I tried.

Carrie just chuckled again. That chuckle was beginning to sound sinister to me.

“CIA? KGB?”

“I hear the KGB is officially out of business these days,” Carrie offered.

As far as I knew, I still hadn’t guessed who was behind the scheme in
Cool Fallout
by the time we got to Nan’s house. I pulled my keys from the ignition and turned to Carrie. Her eyes were crinkled in a smug, feline smile.

“You’ll have more fun finding out for yourself,” she told me as she opened her door.

I shrugged as I opened mine. I still had all of dinner and the ride back to ask questions. She was right. I would have more fun finding out for myself. But I was going to find out by pumping her.

It was a great diversion. I was smiling as I got out of the car. But then I looked out across the street and saw Slade’s house. Its redwood facade looked so peaceful behind the trees, the embodiment of gracious living. The hair on the back of my neck rose in memory of the last time I’d been in that house.

How could I have forgotten, even for a moment, that the author of
Cool Fallout
was dead?

“Kate,” Carrie said sharply. I turned and saw a look of concern on her face.

“I’m fine,” I told her.

She nodded, then pointed to the BMW in front of Nan’s house. The real estate agent was in.

We walked past Nan’s car to her front door. I looked at Carrie. She straightened her shoulders. I did the same. Between the two of us, we just might be able to convince Nan to speak.

I rapped my knuckles hard on Nan’s front door. The door shifted open with a muted creak. That was weird. A still shot of Slade’s front door swinging wide open glanced across my mind. And with it a burst of nausea.

That was then, this is now, I told myself. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open a little further. Far enough to peek into Nan’s tiny but tasteful living room. And then I saw Nan. She was sprawled against one of her perfectly matched vanilla-colored sofas.

- Twenty -

“What is it?” Carrie demanded impatiently.

She pushed Nan’s door open even wider, wide enough so she could see into the living room. Then I heard the sharp rasp of her indrawn breath.

I didn’t blame Carrie for the sound. I don’t know why I hadn’t made it myself. Maybe because I wasn’t breathing. Somehow, I didn’t have the energy. Because Nan Millard was dead.

I couldn’t even find the strength to pull my eyes away. Nan lay splayed against her beautifully upholstered sofa as if she’d been thrown there. There was a bloody hole in her chest. It didn’t go well with her teal suit, not well at all. And the hole actually looked burnt around the edges. But it couldn’t be burnt, I told myself. There was a gun a few feet away from her on the floor. Guns didn’t burn, did they? I couldn’t seem to think straight.