Death hits the fan (14 page)

"So are you guys jiving me?" she demanded as I checked off order forms.

I borrowed Wayne's grunt for a reply.

"Do you really think it's dangerous?" she continued as I calculated payroll deposits for the week.

I shrugged. Another Wayne adaptation.

"Why me?" she asked piteously. "Why do these things always happen to me?"

I just shook my head and sighed. Poor thing. I just hoped it wouldn't take her long to find a new home.

After a few hours, I'd actually managed to get a fair amount of work done. Maybe I ought to tape Ingrid's voice, I decided. She certainly was a spur to work.

"Hey, Ingrid," I began.

But by this time, she'd miraculously run out of words for me, and retreated to the living room to talk to her dog. I didn't

interrupt. I gathered from Apollo's yips and groans that he had more of an understanding of her unique sensibilities than I did.

And, anyway, it was time to visit Dean.

"Poisons," I mused, as Wayne drove. Tonight, he'd insisted on driving his Jaguar. I sank deeper into the decadence of real leather, reminding myself that leather was only a byproduct of the meat process. It was a great anti-guilt mantra, especially when buying running shoes. Whether or not it was true. "Who would have the best access to poisons?"

"Depends what poison," Wayne threw in. "Acupuncturists use herbs."

"Vince Quadrini's wife died of cancer," I countered. "I wonder if he gave her morphine injections?"

"And Dean Frazier is an anesthesiologist," Wayne reminded me as he pulled into Dean's driveway.

Timing is everything. So they tell me.

Dean's clean, white living room bore a slight similarity to Yvette's. Because Dean was a collector, too. He collected chess sets, rocks, fish-filled aquariums, books, watercolors, and carved Buddhas. But Dean's collections were all neatly segregated and orderly under carefully arranged track lighting. Chaos was expelled from this realm. His books were alphabetized. I didn't have the nerve to ask if his rocks were too.

After a brief hand-shaking ritual, we followed him into the kitchen carrying the berry cobbler and the two bottles of Martinelli's sparkling cider we'd brought as offerings. As we entered, I saw that he collected food too. Provisions for at least twenty years or so were stored on spotless shelves spanning one wall, all the way to the ceiling. Identical glass jars of beans, dried fruit, lentils, nuts, rice, grains, and about everything else that could be dried were arranged in perfect symmetry. I wondered where the water collection was. I hoped there was a water collection. And I hoped Dean learned to cook before the apocalypse.

I sniffed. He certainly hadn't been cooking today. The faint smell of garlic that scented the room was as subtle as the classical music that floated gently from hidden speakers. I pulled my eyes from his apocalypse shelf and looked at his precisely set table. A familiar set of white cartons sat in the center. Only this time it wasn't Japanese take-out. It was Italian.

"Shayla's husband is a man named Scott Green," Dean told us placidly once we were finally seated and digging into pasta primavera smothered with garlic, chard, and mushrooms. "And Scott Green is my lover."

I choked on my pasta, surprised more by Dean's directness, if not his information. I tried to choke unobtrusively and took a swig of Martinelli's to wash it down. Luckily, Dean hadn't noticed my reaction. His eyes were fixed on the shelves of glass jars behind us.

"But Shayla was my friend too," he went on as I began breathing again, in and out of my nose as noiselessly as I could, trying not to break his flow of words. "My best friend, next to Scott. Lord, it must be at least fifteen years I've known them. The three of us had a friendship not many people might understand, I expect. But it suited us."

A magic circle, I thought, remembering Zoe's words.

"But why did it suit Shayla?" Wayne asked quietly. There was a real need for understanding on his face. Though I wasn't sure that Dean saw it. I don't think he was really seeing either of us.

"Ah, Shayla," Dean sighed. His eyes moistened. He pulled on the chain around his neck, freeing the jade stone from beneath his shirt, then laid his palm on its smooth surface ever so gently. Had Shayla given him the green stone? "Shayla was a complicated woman. She was originally a professor of anthropology, you know, not that she used the name Shayla then. But she wanted to write. With a vengeance. And she did. But it wasn't until the Beth Ques-tra series that her career really took off."

Dean lowered his shaggy head to actually look at us.

"Scott supported Shayla in her writing," he told us. "Cheered her on, kept on telling her she'd do it eventually. And she did. They were a real love match—"

"Really?" I asked, not knowing I'd spoken till the word left my mouth. I wanted to understand as much as Wayne did.

Dean peered into my face.

"Really," he assured me. "You have to think on it awhile to comprehend, I expect." His eyes wandered upwards again. "Everyone assumes love has to mean sex. But there are all kinds of love. And their love was true. As unshakable as ... as the earth. How can I explain?"

I wasn't sure if we were supposed to answer his question in the ensuing silence. After a few peaceful bars of Vivaldi, I was about to prompt him. But he spoke first.

"Let me tell you a story," he said, slipping the jade amulet back beneath his shirt and stroking his gray beard instead. "Some years back, Shayla had an affair with a man she met at an anthropology conference."

He took a big breath.

"Oh, yes, Shayla had her affairs," Dean apprised me as if I'd asked. Or maybe he was reminding himself. "But her affairs were never serious. Because she loved Scott. With her heart, you see. She knew Scott was gay when she married him, right out of college. The truth be told, that was a big reason why she married him. She wanted a life other than that of a typical wife and mother. And in those years, it just wasn't done, you see. But she hoped it might be possible with Scott."

Now I began to understand. Shayla had to have been older than I was. A good ten years older, probably. Was she in college before Betty Friedan had even published The Feminine Mystique?

"So they both had affairs," Dean went on. "But Scott's were more enduring." He smiled. "I guess fifteen years

counts as enduring. But Shayla kept hers brief. Then she met this man at the anthropology conference. And I do believe she fell in love with him. She came to me. She couldn't tell Scott, you see. Because the man wanted her to divorce Scott, to marry him. She came to me and said she loved Scott more. I didn't know what to tell her. Lord, I've wondered if I should have said something, anything. But finally, she just stood up and announced she loved Scott too dearly to change. She never saw the man from the conference again. Dear God, she could be a wonderful woman."

If loyalty was love, he was beginning to convince me that Shayla had loved Scott dearly indeed.

"Romantic love," Wayne murmured.

Dean smiled. It looked good on his weathered face.

"It was romantic," Dean replied, his voice a little louder now. "And real. Scott and I met doing hospice work. He was volunteering ..."

As Dean spoke about his relationship with Scott, I thought about hospices. Syringes for two? And talk about your poisons.

"... I don't believe Scott really accepts his gayness entirely, even to this day," Dean was saying.

Would the two men become more of a couple now? Now that Shayla was gone? I peered at Dean suspiciously. And saw the loss in his reddened eyes. On the other hand, maybe the magic would be gone in Shayla's absence. Maybe three were necessary to the relationship. I hoped not for Dean's sake. I reached out a hand to pat his. But Wayne spoke before our hands touched.

"Possible to talk to Scott?" Wayne asked.

"Bet it would be," Dean answered, rising from the table and leaving the kitchen in an instant.

Wayne and I looked at each other, confused by his sudden departure. Where had Dean gone? Did he have Scott stashed somewhere? Or maybe a weapon? I took a bite of garlic bread.

It was too good to waste. And another bite of pasta. A few bites later, Dean returned with a portable phone in his hand.

"Scott," he whispered, pointing at the phone.

"Huh?" I said.

But Wayne was quicker. Within seconds he had the phone, and within minutes he'd arranged a lunch date with Scott for the next day. At the house where he and Shayla had lived together. Damn.

In the Jaguar heading home, though, Wayne didn't seem triumphant. His brows were pulled over his eyes like shields as he steered silently.

"More take-out for tomorrow?" I asked him lightly.

"They loved each other, Kate," he growled. "A true marriage."

My heart fell to my shoes. And it hurt down there. Wayne's need to marry was so intense, it had to hurt. I'd stopped trying to argue its logic long ago, only acknowledged the need. But I still hadn't filled it. Stopped by my own illogical resistance. I shook my head. Scott and Shayla had possessed love and marriage, but not sex. Wayne and I had love and sex, but not marriage.

"Ours will be a true marriage, too," I told him.

"Really?" he asked softly, like a child listening to a well-worn story but still hoping the make-believe was true.

"With sex and everything," I added.

He laughed and pushed down on the pedal of the Jaguar.

"In fact..." I whispered tantalizingly.

We were home in minutes. And holding each other as we walked up our front stairs. He was such a solid man, it was like holding a rock.

It was a good thing we were holding each other so tightly or the body hurtling down the redwood stairs would have knocked both of us over, solid or not.

S*he hurtling body fell backwards against the stairs, arms flailing frantically, as backside met redwood.

"Ow-ooh!" he howled. "Goddamn, splinters too. This house is a goddamn minefield!"

The man on the stairs was Raoul Raymond, our tango teacher, but he wasn't slithering gracefully tonight. And he seemed to have lost his accent too. And gained something in return.

"Raoul," I informed him, backing down a stair, in step with Wayne. "You smell terrible."

And he did. His pungent scent was nauseatingly familiar, but strong. Really strong.

"No shit!" he shouted again. "Lady, you've got skunks! How do you stand it? The little creep sprayed me. Me—"

"What are you doing here?" Wayne interrupted.

Wayne and I moved back down another step in unison as we waited for Raoul's answer. I pulled my shirt over my

face. I wondered how the tango class was going to take to Raoul's new fragrance.

"Visiting," he muttered, averting his face from mine as he rose from the stairs. "Ingrid."

"Oh, good," I told him through my shirt. "Maybe she could stay with you."

"The skunk?" Raoul demanded, affronted. And clearly still addled by his encounter.

"No, Ingrid," I explained.

"Oh." Raoul seemed to gain back some composure. He brushed himself off, as if he could brush off the smell. But he still stank.

"Of course, if the lovely Ms. Regnary could be convinced," he offered, his accent back in place.

"You can always try," I said encouragingly.

"Thank you, Ms. Jasper," he replied. "You are truly a lady of much graciousness."

And then he sidled by us. We gave him plenty of space.

We gave Ingrid plenty of space too as we walked past the living room. Unfortunately, no skunk had sprayed her. Apparently the incident had occurred outdoors.

"Is Raoul okay?" she whispered.

"He's great," I told her. "And he might be rich."

"Rich?" she said, interest perking her voice.

"And he'll only smell for a little while," I added.

I was glad she didn't ask me how long "a little while" might be, because frankly, I didn't know.

Hhe next morning was Monday. And I was on the phone. To Jest Gifts. To the temporarily (I hoped) artistically impaired manufacturers of my shark cups. To the temporarily (I hoped) number-challenged bank I did business with. To our box suppliers. To my accountant. To an unhappy customer. Back to Jest Gifts. And finally, to an individual they called "the skunk broker."

The skunk broker had been a stockbroker until he had undergone an "absolutely inspired lifestyle transformation" some years back and begun working with animals instead of money at the local animal shelter. And helping people get rid of unwanted fauna in the evenings. I wondered if his lifestyle change had been inspired by the stock market crash. In any case, his earlier offer to trap our skunks and release them in the wild for fifty dollars was beginning to sound good to me now. I just wished he could find a box for Ingrid, Bob Xavier, Raoul Raymond, and whoever had killed Shayla Greenfree.

Finally, it was time to drive to Scott Green's. Green, Greenfree. As I pulled out of the driveway, I wondered when Shayla had changed her name. But that question could wait. I started to tell Wayne about my talk with the skunk broker as I pulled out onto Shoreline.

"What evidence do we have that he actually releases them in the wild?" Wayne asked reasonably once I had finished my report.

"Evidence?" I said, as quick on the uptake as usual.

"How do we know he doesn't just take them a block over and release them under someone else's house?" Wayne pressed.

Damn. It would make good business sense. Multiply fifty dollars a head times a few skunks every few days. And then there were the skunks multiplying themselves. Not bad for a moonlighting job. Skunk recycling for fun and profit.

By the time I was driving my Toyota over the Golden Gate Bridge toward Scott Green's house in San Francisco, I was too entranced by the view to care about skunks anymore. The air was crisp and coolly clear. We could see the suspension cables of the Bay Bridge, the green of the Presidio, even the pointy Transamerica pyramid building, shimmering in the distance. Not to mention the tourists right up close, hiking in short-shorts over the bridge. You can always

tell the tourists. They're color-coded blue from the unexpected chill of sunny California. Especially on the windy bridge. And it is windy. As if in proof, a gust unceremoniously ripped a sun hat off a tall woman and dumped it into the churning waters some two or three hundred feet below. I imagined a piscine bookkeeper adding another digit to the score somewhere beneath the burbling blue water.