Death hits the fan (4 page)

"Ms. Greenfree," Ivan whispered, his voice husky, his Asian bulldog features flat, face drained.

"Of course, Ms. Greenfree," the captain echoed, beaming as if at a prize student. "An author, I understand."

"A great author," Mr. Quadrini put in, his voice loud but quavery. For a moment I worried about Mr. Quadrini. He seemed too old for the game we were playing, whatever it was. His body was shaking in his pinstriped suit, really shaking. It was cold again in the store, all the heat sucked out by the many trips in and out the front door, but not that cold. Was he having some sort of attack?

"Perhaps, you might introduce yourself first, then, sir," Captain Xavier suggested.

Mr. Quadrini straightened up in his chair, clasping his trembling hands together. "My name is Vincent Joseph Quadrini. I'm the owner of Quadrini and Associates Realty. I knew Shayla Greenfree as a fan—"

"Do you live here in Verduras?" the captain interjected, his voice and face friendly.

"What?" Mr. Quadrini jumped. "Oh, Verduras. No, I live

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down the way in Hutton. Anyway, I just wanted to say that Shayla Greenfree was a truly gracious woman, and a truly great writer—"

"Damn-darn, she wasn't all that great," Yvette threw in. "I mean she was pretty flippin' good, but not great. I mean Ted here did the whole alien-left-on-earth shtick first, right?" She turned to Ted. He shrugged his shoulders, his long, morose face impassive. "I mean, she wasn't even that original—"

"I beg your pardon," Mr. Quadrini threw back, his face suddenly red under his well-groomed wavy hair. "I'll be blunt. Neither you, Ms. Cassell, nor you, Mr. Brown, was even in the same class with S.X. Greenfree. She was a real writer, a truly brilliant woman, and for anyone to say different is just, just.. ."

"Irreverent," Zoe put in helpfully, diffidently. Then her round face pinkened and she looked down at her lap.

Zoe's terminological helpfulness wasn't making any friends for her with Yvette or Ted, that was for sure. Yvette's tiny head had reared back with Quadrini's blunt evaluation and even Ted's gloomy face had showed a spark of something, annoyance maybe.

"Yes, irreverent, exactly," Mr. Quadrini continued with a small bow of his head Zoe's way. "Thank you, young woman. That is exactly the word I was searching for, irreverent—"

"Oh, come on," Yvette began. "All this real writer shi-stuff is—"

But Captain Xavier interrupted her with a raised hand. And I was glad he did. Mr. Quadrini was out of his chair now, his hand balled into a fist. More than twenty years ago, when I worked in a mental hospital, I'd run group therapy sessions in the violent ward where the interaction was friendlier than in this group. Of course, the patients had been on medication. But still—

"And your name, if you please," the captain asked, turning his high beams on Yvette.

Yvette gave her name and her husband's name, as Mr. Quadrini sank back into his chair. Then she began to talk about her leprechaun-sleuth series but the captain interrupted once again to ask if she or her husband lived in Ver-duras. Strike two. She and Lou were also out-of-towners. For what it was worth. And the territorial information seemed to be worth something to Xavier. Though I wasn't sure exactly what it was worth.

"She really was a good writer," a wistful voice put in before Yvette could continue. The captain turned his head toward the speaker. "I'm Winona Eads," she added quickly. "I live in Morris, and I, I..." Tears came into the red-haired young woman's eyes as she struggled to go on. The heater belched hot air as if in sympathy. "How could she die? She was like . .. like, really cool and no way, no way . .."

The front door opened again and Ivan's seventeen-year-old son, Neil, bustled in with the cold air. I would have known he was Ivan's son even if I hadn't met him before. He had the same bulldog features as his father, however much younger he was.

"Hey, Dad, what's the deal?" he demanded. "There's a cop car and—"

But his flow of words stopped abruptly as his eyes flickered to the group in the circle of chairs and fastened on Winona Eads.

"Hey, Winona!" he cried in concern. "What's the matter?"

He rushed around the chairs toward the redhead, but his feet stopped and his eyes widened as he took in the sight of Shayla Greenfree's body stretched out behind the authors' table. The room was quiet for a moment except for the splatter of rain outside.

Then he tried again. "Hey, what's the deal—?"

"There's been a . . . a . . ." Ivan struggled, keeping his voice low.

"A most unfortunate incident," Captain Xavier finished for the bookseller. "And who might you be?"

"Huh?" Neil answered. He looked back at Winona, at his father, and then back at Shayla's body again. "Huh?"

"My boy," Ivan growled, closing his eyes for a moment before he got up and walked over to his son to put a fatherly arm around him. "Listen, Neil, why don't you go on home? We need to work things out here—"

"No way," Neil replied, a familiar bulldog expression replacing his wide-eyed one. "Mom said—" He stopped himself mid-sentence and looked back at Winona.

Ivan removed his arm with a sigh known to parents of teenagers all over the world.

"I understand, I understand," PMP put in.

"Winona, are you okay?" Neil asked, squeezing his way into the circle of chairs to take his place beside her. He patted her freckled hand tentatively.

"Neil," Ivan tried again, raising his voice.

"I'm sure your son's presence won't harm our process," Captain Xavier boomed benignly. He smiled in Neil's direction.

"Who the hell is he?" Neil demanded of his father.

"He's the captain of the Verduras Police Department," Ivan answered quickly, a high note of warning in his usually low tone. "Please, Neil, will you cooperate?"

"Sure, Dad," Neil answered more quietly, looking around the group. "But what—"

"Shayla wasn't just a writer," a deep, quiet voice interrupted suddenly. Everyone's attention shifted toward the gray-bearded man with his jade pendant still cradled in his hand. His eyes stared out from beneath his dark brows beyond us, focused on something visible only to him. "She was a human. A kind and compassionate human, though she

had her problems, Lord knows. And a friend. Don't you understand? She was a person. Zoe knew her, she can tell you."

"And your name?" Captain Xavier asked softly.

"Dean Frazier," the gray-bearded man answered succinctly.

"Dean's a friend of Shayla's," Zoe added, turning her head to the side as if embarrassed. She pushed her oversized glasses farther up on her nose. "Well, really a friend of Shayla's husband, Scott Green. Oh phooey, I mean he was a friend of Shayla's. And Scott. Or is, of Scott. Or . .. whatever."

The dead woman had a husband? Suddenly, the meaning of Dean's words were real to me. Real like the woman lying on the floor. Not just an author. A real woman with real friends. And a husband. Damn. I felt the pressure of imminent tears behind my eyes. For a woman I didn't even know. But others had known her. And probably loved her. Who was going to tell her husband she was dead?

Zoe Ingersoll introduced herself briefly, then went on. "I was a friend too, I guess. Maybe you'd say an insignificant other." She rolled her eyes. "Of Shayla's, I mean," she finished up awkwardly.

The group was silent then. No one else volunteered any information. So the captain began asking each of us formal questions. Ted Brown identified himself as a fellow author. Phyllis Oberman simply as a reader. And Marcia Armeson said she was the store manager.

When Captain Xavier got to me, I decided on the name, rank, and serial number approach. "Kate Jasper," I said. "I live in Mill Valley. I'd just read Ms. Greenfree's books, and Wayne and I know Ivan—"

"Holy shi-shift! Shayla called out 'Kate' right before she fell over!" Yvette yelped, popping out of her seat with the realization. She pointed her finger at me accusingly. I glared back at her. I knew there was a reason I didn't like the lep-

rechaun lady. "Didn't Shayla, huh?" she insisted, looking to her husband, Lou, for support. He looked down at the floor. "I mean, like she was—"

"I heard her say 'Kate' too," I cut back in, keeping my voice as calm as I could, while everyone's eyes turned toward me. Everyone's but Dean's. He was still focused on the unknown. "But I don't think she could have meant me. As far as I know, we'd never even met before."

Captain Xavier gazed at me. Somehow his smile didn't look as congenial as it had before.

"Well, Ms. Jasper," he began, his booming voice sounding like thunder now. "Do you have a reasonable explanation—"

Officer Dupree came marching through the door at that moment, looking more officious than official with a roll of yellow crime-scene tape in his hands, along with tape and scissors and other implements of construction. I was grateful for his interruption. And for the cool air he brought with him. My face felt hot. And I was beginning to sweat again. Captain Xavier hardly glanced over as Dupree circled Shayla's body with the crime-scene tape and then began on the authors' table. The captain was still looking at me. And his smile seemed to have awfully big teeth all of a sudden.

"And can you tell me just why Ms. Greenfree called out your name, Ms. Jasper?" he asked.

"No!" I answered in frustration. I had to opt for honesty. I didn't know what else to do. "I don't know why she said 4 Kate.' Maybe I reminded her of another Kate she knew. Maybe I did meet her and don't remember. If I knew, I'd tell you. It's driving me crazy."

"Huh! It'd only take a short putt, not a drive," Yvette muttered, dropping back into her seat. I kept myself from turning her way, afraid that a truly murderous impulse might show in my face. By this time I hated Yvette Cassell, leprechauns, and all things Irish, for that matter.

"Wayne Caruso," came a low rumble from my side. The heat of my anger cooled a few degrees when I heard my sweetie's voice. At least I didn't hate everything Irish anymore. "Mill Valley. Fan, and friend of Ivan's. Mr. Frazier, did Ms. Greenfree have a friend named Kate?"

"What?" Dean said, his eyes finally focusing. Focusing on Wayne.

"Did S.X. Greenfree have a friend or relative named Kate?" Wayne expanded.

"No," Dean answered slowly, wrinkling his forehead in thought. "Not that I know of. Though I wouldn't necessarily know. You might ask Scott. Just in case."

And then I remembered the dead woman and her husband again, and the flame of my anger was extinguished completely.

"Well, think about why she said 'Kate,' Ms. Jasper," Captain Xavier suggested mildly.

I nodded. As if I could stop thinking about it.

The captain went on then to ask us all what we had seen.

And then the reality of S.X. Greenfree's death really seemed to hit the fan, in the form of Mr. Vincent Joseph Quadrini.

"She died!" he shouted. "She died in front of all of our eyes! It was the bracelet. I said it was the bracelet, but no one would listen—"

"And just why are you so sure the bracelet was involved in Ms. Greenfree's death?" Captain Xavier interjected quickly.

I was beginning to see the method in the man's friendliness. It was all too easy to forget he was a policeman. A policeman investigating a suspicious death.

"Because ..." Mr. Quadrini sputtered. He raised his pinstriped aims. "Because ... because she put it on and then she was dead."

"How about you, Ms. Cassell?" the captain went on. "Did you see who placed the bracelet on the table?"

It was nice to see Yvette in the hot seat. She just shook her head, squirming in her chair, keeping her small mouth closed for a change. Xavier turned to Ted Brown next. Who also shook his head. And to each of us in turn. But no one had seen the bracelet. Or admitted to it, anyway. Not until Ted had pointed it out. Not even Marcia with her camera. No matter how many times he asked, the captain of the Verduras Police Department got the same answer. Nothing. PMP had a few words to say, but not about the jeweled bracelet. Or about anything else that the captain wanted to know, for that matter. And he wanted to know an awful lot of things: about our movements, our times of arrival, our relationships. All he did find out for sure was that no one in the room actually lived in Verduras.

But if any of this noninformation bothered Captain Cal Xavier any, it didn't dim his radiance. He was still smiling broadly a couple of hours later when he politely asked each of us to give our full names and addresses to Officer Gilstrap, then left the bookstore after a warm handshake for every one of us. As he shook my hand, I couldn't help but notice his resemblance to Ingrid's troublesome ex, Bob, again. And to see the curiosity in those dark Xavier eyes.

Officer Gilstrap took our names, addresses, and phone numbers one by one, with Officer Dupree by her side checking our drivers' licenses, shaking his stubby finger and warning each of us not to leave town.

Only Ivan, Marcia, Neil, and Winona Eads remained as fellow survivors of the signing when Wayne and I were finally given permission to leave.

"Help me figure this out," Ivan whispered as we were almost to the door. "Help me find out what happened, who killed her."

"But maybe it was just a heart attack," I protested weakly, praying as earnestly as an agnostic can that it was just a

heart attack. Or anything natural. "Everything will be all right—"

But then I really looked into Ivan's eyes. There was desperation there. "All right" wasn't going to be enough. Wayne stood behind me, wisely silent.

"I know I shouldn't ask," Ivan sighed finally. "I understand."

Wayne gave his friend a hug and then pulled the door of the Fictional Pleasures Bookstore open to the elements.

"I understand," PMP repeated and gave us a wolf-whistle as we ran out into the nonfictional pleasures of the rainy night.

And it was a pleasure to feel the cold rain again. I stood for a moment by the Toyota, leaning my head back, feeling the wet splatter of freedom on my face. And then we climbed into my old car for the ride home.

Wayne didn't say anything as I drove.

"But I didn 't know her!" I burst out when we were almost home.