Death hits the fan (3 page)

"Can't be," she stated brusquely. "Let me help, she can't be dead." She looked toward Lou.

Lou just stared back at her, then shrugged.

For a breath, she stood there, straight and tall, her head still turned toward Lou. All I could see from behind her was her large, lush body, and her salt-and-pepper hair in a French roll held together with carved ivory pins.

The store heater let out another roar of hot air, and the woman marched forward to kneel by Shayla's body, taking the author's pulse, but differently than the two others who'd preceded her. Gently, she felt Shayla's right wrist at three places. And then her left wrist. She even felt Shayla's abdomen. Finally, she frowned and rubbed her own thumb against her forefinger before standing again and straightening her spine.

"Can't be," she repeated, but more quietly now, as if to herself. She tapped her heels on the floor and turned back to-

ward Ivan. She was a lovely woman with creamy white skin and large, hazel eyes. Large, worried hazel eyes.

"Phyllis Oberman, she's an acupuncturist," Ivan whispered to me. "She's into romances."

I felt a hand on my arm and whirled around, my heart pounding louder than the rain on the roof. But the hand was Wayne's.

"Sorry," he said.

I took his hand and squeezed it in a not-guilty verdict.

"Made the calls," he added tersely.

"Thanks," Ivan whispered and sighed.

PMP echoed his sigh and we stood listening to the mixture of rain, heat, weeping, and the distant hum of traffic.

"The bracelet!" Yvette exclaimed and the symphony of sound was shattered.

She bent over, her fingertips almost touching the jewels gleaming around Shayla's wrist.

But Lou leapt in front of his wife, blocking her, lifting her back into a standing position.

He whispered something to Yvette, something I couldn't hear. But I could hear Yvette's comeback clearly enough.

"Poisoned?" she sang out. "So, you think Shayla was poisoned?"

"I sincerely hope not, but—" Lou stopped mid-sentence. "Yvette, keep out of this, please."

Yvette looked around, eyeing each of us in turn. Did she think we were suspects in one of her books? Had Shayla been poisoned? Murdered? A familiar sick feeling began in my stomach and climbed into my chest. Please, I thought. Please, not another murder.

"Who put the bracelet there?" Yvette demanded, hands on her tiny hips.

But no one answered her. Not even PMP.

"Honey, no one's going to 4 fess up,'" Lou told her, his words coming faster now. "This is no prank—"

"Someone must have seen something," she insisted, patting his arm as if he was her size and she was his. His tall, well-built body was beginning to vibrate with frustration. I knew the phenomenon well, having observed Wayne in the same state more than once.

"Did anyone see who put the bracelet on the table?" Yvette plowed on.

Suddenly I didn't feel cold anymore. I was beginning to feel unbearably hot. I felt sweat bead on my brow and wondered if I looked guilty. And wondered once again why Shayla had called my name.

"Perhaps we should all sit down," Ivan suggested. "A moment of harmony—"

"No." Yvette cut him off without a glance. "Someone must have seen something. And once the fu-fuddin' police get here, we won't be able to share what we know. If Shayla was murdered—"

"Maybe she just had a heart attack," Lou interjected reasonably.

The shrill sound of a nearby siren seemed to spur Yvette on.

"Maybe, maybe," Yvette conceded, speaking more quickly. "But maybe not. And we probably only have a few minutes . .."

We had less than that. Yvette was in the middle of ordering us all to tell her exactly what we'd seen, when a wave of cold, wet air crashed through the doorway of the bookstore, carrying with it a uniformed man, a uniformed woman, and a load of medical equipment. The paramedics had arrived.

An agony of efficient activity later and the paramedics had reached the same conclusion as Lou Cassell had. The same as Dean Frazier. The same as Phyllis Oberman. Shayla, S.X. Greenfree, was irretrievably, irrevocably dead.

"Who owns the store?" one of the paramedics asked.

Ivan raised his hand, hesitantly. I didn't blame him for the hesitation. I shivered in spite of myself.

"Scree, police procedural, last row," PMP offered helpfully. "Oh, shut up."

Maybe Ivan could claim the parrot owned the store.

But the paramedic only glanced at PMP and then her eyes were back on Ivan.

"Police been called?" she asked sternly.

Ivan nodded.

Dean turned his head away and moaned. Mr. Quadrini was not as quiet about his feelings, however.

"Why are you asking about the police?" he demanded. "What is it that you're not saying?"

The paramedic put up her hand, but Mr. Quadrini wasn't as easy to ignore as PMP.

"Was it the bracelet? What. .."

I opened my mouth to ask Ivan more about Mr. Quadrini. But he was way ahead of me.

"Vince Quadrini, Shayla's super-fan," Ivan whispered my way, shielding his mouth with his hand again. "Bought all of her books. Came to all—"

And then suddenly, a figure came flying out from behind the bookshelves, running toward the door, red hair streaming behind her. The young woman who'd been lurking. I'd forgotten all about her. I'd have bet we all had. Until now.

"Not so fuddin' fast!" Yvette shouted and ran to block the redhead's trajectory.

Yvette blocked her all right. The hard way. The two women went down in a heap and then I saw legs kicking. Long legs in knee-high boots and shorter legs in Reeboks. Lou was there a moment later, pulling the younger woman up off the floor by the collar of her flannel shirt. The redheaded woman couldn't have been too many years over

twenty. And she was clearly frightened, her oval eyes wide and off center in her freckled face. Frantic.

The two paramedics moved toward the trio cautiously.

"No, no," the young woman whimpered. "I gotta leave now."

"Why, are you our murderer?" Yvette demanded calmly, on her feet now. Her tinted glasses were askew, but her tiny hands were firmly in place on her miniature hips. She peered up into the younger woman's face. "Go ahead, tell me why you killed her."

"Me?" the woman said. Her full lips fell open for a moment; then she gulped as if swallowing the enormity of the accusation. "Me? No way! She was my hero. I read everything she wrote." She rubbed her flanneled arms convulsively.

"Who?" I asked Ivan urgently.

"Don't know her name," he whispered back, urgency in his tone, too. "But she's always in the store. I think my son, Neil, knows her." He brought his hand up to his temple. "No, I do know her name. It's Winona, Winona Eads—"

And then another wave of cold air poured through the door. This one brought the police. At least I assumed they were the police. A woman and a man in uniforms different from those of the paramedics, and another man in a well-made gray wool suit. A man who was smiling widely.

Ivan sighed and made his way to the smiling man in the gray suit while the uniformed officers glared at the rest of us, then shook the smiling man's hand before leading him back behind the sales counter where they whispered in frus-tratingly low tones.

"I understand," PMP sighed. "Of course."

"It was murder, you know," Yvette announced loudly.

The smile didn't waver as the gray-suited newcomer turned toward Yvette.

"And you are?" he inquired, his voice warm and obliging. Friendly even.

Was it murder? I surveyed our group, wondering what this man saw to smile about. The two paramedics who remained halfway between Shayla and Yvette? Yvette herself, and Lou Cassell, standing side by side at the end of a set of shelves containing apocalypse fiction and horror, now seemingly completely fused into couplehood despite their differences? Winona Eads, her oval eyes still wide with fright? Ted Brown, morose and unmoving in his author's seat? Dean Frazier and Zoe Ingersoll, clearly not a couple but still somehow allied at the end of another set of shelves? Vince Quadrini, senior super-fan? Phyllis Oberman, voluptuous acupuncturist? Ivan, Wayne's old friend? Or maybe the one who wasn't visible, Marcia Armeson, Ivan's second in command, now missing in action?

And Wayne. My Wayne. I grabbed his hand and willed the strength of his body to seep into mine. And mine into his.

Then I looked back at the smiling policeman. He looked familiar to me. Something about his dark eyes reminded me of our unwanted houseguest's boyfriend, Bob Xavier.

I shook the thought out of my head. Now I was seeing doubles.

The policeman cleared his throat.

"Now people, I want all of you here tonight to think positively," he declared. "I'll be here to help you through this difficult situation. Let me introduce myself. I'm Captain Cal Xavier of the Verduras Police Department."

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v^aptain Cal Xavier?

Damn. No wonder his eyes reminded me of Bob Xavier's, the man Ingrid had been living with before she moved in with us. The man she was afraid of. The man Wayne and I had repeatedly escorted from our living room. The man whose last words to us had been, Til get you guys for this."

How many Xaviers could there be in Marin? Especially Xaviers who looked alike. Captain Cal Xavier was older, but he had the same dark flashing eyes as Bob, the same neatly shaped nose with a rounded tip, even the same springy hair, mustache, and brows, except that his were graying.

Was he Bob Xavier's cousin? Brother? Father? My heart beat harder with each guess. And he was here to investigate S.X. Greenfree's death. The woman who had called out my name before dying.

I felt Wayne's hand return my squeeze sharply. Had he noticed the resemblance, too? I kept my face forward, but let my eyes travel for a quick look at my sweetie's face. Wayne

scrutinized the police captain, then flashed me a return look, with one brow raised high enough to expose a glint of panic. He'd noticed.

"Now I hope you'll all help me out here," Captain Xavier was continuing, smile unabated, his booming voice filled with enthusiasm. "We have a job to do and with everyone pitching in, we'll get it done."

No one said "amen," though his words seemed to cry out for some kind of affirmation.

It didn't really matter if Bob Xavier was related to the captain, I told myself, nodding all the time, hoping I looked like someone who was ready to pitch in and help. Hopefully, Bob Xavier hadn't bothered to mention his troubles with In-grid to his relatives. Or to mention where she'd sought sanctuary. Or who'd given her sanctuary. Even if he had, he probably wouldn't have mentioned our actual names. I swallowed. Hopefully. Somehow, my self-lecture wasn't helping to slow my pulse any.

"Well, all right, then," Captain Xavier concluded. "Let's all start in by introducing ourselves—"

"Hey," one of the uniformed officers cut in. He was a small round man with what looked like a permanent sneer on his clean-shaven face. He put one hand on his hip. "Shouldn't we at least establish death, cordon off the body, that kinda stuff?"

Captain Xavier's smile faltered for a moment, but returned in full force.

"Very helpful, Officer Dupree," he commented, his voice booming as if in commendation, though I would have bet that his tone was just about as sincere as my helpful nods were. "Why don't you and Officer Gilstrap just do that?"

They did. Officer Gilstrap was female, about four inches taller than Dupree, well-built with a face that showed all the emotion of a marble paperweight under her fringe of blond hair. Blue eyes unblinking, she headed toward the para-

medics, engaging them in whispered conversation as Dupree left the store for purposes unknown. The captain brightened up his smile some more and continued speaking.

"So, perhaps we can arrange these chairs in a nice little circle," he suggested cheerily.

"I'd be glad to," Ivan offered and scuttled out from behind the sales counter. "Where's Marcia?"

"Where's Marcia?" PMP echoed. "Where's Marcia. Never here when I need her. Oh, well. Scree-scraw. Cash or charge."

But Marcia Armeson was there suddenly, appearing like a genie from the bottle of the back aisle. She sauntered toward the rest of us with a show of nonchalance that matched her designer jeans but not the tightness of her clamped lips. Whatever she'd been doing in the storeroom before, she was a dutiful employee now, helping Ivan arrange the folding chairs into a circle with a minimum of clattering and a maximum of efficiency. Actually, the circle ended up being more of an oval, the chairs skirting the authors' table, and Shayla's body behind it, just as carefully as the humans had.

Once the seating was arranged, one of the paramedics gathered up equipment while the other listened to the squawk of a hand-held phone, and then they rushed back out into the night, letting in another blast of cold, wet air. Captain Xavier swept his arm toward the group of chairs.

It was amazing how easily everyone dropped into those teak folding chairs. Maybe it was the captain's charisma at work. Yvette Cassell started to protest, but Lou laid a restraining hand on her arm and they both sat down. Ted Brown took his place beside them without a word. Zoe In-gersoll led a still dazed Dean Frazier to his seat, before taking her own. Even Winona Eads sat down, though still rubbing her arms convulsively. When Marcia, Ivan, Wayne, and I took our own seats, Vince Quadrini collapsed into his. Only Phyllis Oberman, the acupuncturist, remained stand-

ing, straight and tall, staring into Captain Xavier's eyes as if there was a secret there she didn't understand.

"Madam?" Captain Xavier offered with another expansive sweep of his arm, and Phyllis clumped into the circle, seating herself and pulling at the legs of her Mao pajamas while muttering something too low to be heard. Only then did the captain of the Verduras Police Department lower himself onto one of the folding chairs as if it were a throne. King Arthur of the Knights of the Round Table, minus the table.

"Well now," Captain Xavier boomed. "The first thing on my agenda is to get to know you each a little better. Why don't we just go around the group, introduce ourselves, where we're from, and how we knew Ms. . .." He turned to Ivan for help.