Murder in Pastel (18 page)

“That doesn’t mean he killed Brett.” I had to ask. “Does he still think he’s gay?”

“No.”

“Just a phase, huh? Why do you think he killed Brett?”

“Could I have another glass of wine?”

I didn’t have to ply her with alcohol, she was willing to ply herself. I poured her another glass.

“Talk to me, Jenny.”

She swallowed a mouthful of wine in a gulp, and said, “He’s changed, Kyle. From the time we moved here. We quit our jobs. Well, mine wasn’t much of a career, but Vince’s was. We moved here year round so Vince could paint, and it’s been a disaster. We’re broke. I don’t care, but Vince can’t handle it. All he thinks about is money.”

“Why doesn’t he go back to his ad agency?”

“Because that would mean failure. He can’t accept another failure.”

“Gotcha.”

“Then he found
Virgin in Pastel
. It was like a miracle.”

“You found the painting, Jen.”

She shrugged. “Same difference.”

“You really are too good for him.”

She didn’t hear this. She leaned forward, saying earnestly in a little gust of Merlot breath, “But instead of things getting better, they got worse. All Vince could think about was that painting, about someone trying to take it from him. First you, then Brett.”

“Brett?”

“He kept thinking of all the ways to spend the money. He put money down on a new car. A Jag. Then he started worrying about all the people who would cheat him out of it.”

The Jag or the money? All of the above or none of the above?

“What about Brett?”

“Brett told Vince he was keeping the painting for you. That it was really yours. That’s why Vince is so sure you have it. But that wasn’t what scared me. Vince would have given Brett that painting before.”

“Before what?”

“I don’t know. That’s just it. Something happened between them. Vince said he wanted to kill Brett, but he wouldn’t say why. And then Brett said he was keeping the painting, and then Brett was dead. Vince won’t talk about it.”

I contemplated this and was reminded of something that had been niggling at the back of my mind for some days now.

“Jenny, the night of the party that weed killer Irene loaned me went missing. Then the bottle turned up empty a few days later. Do you know if Vince might have borrowed it?”

Vince was famous for “borrowing” stuff.

Jenny’s hand shook as she set her wine glass down. “I took it.”

“You? Why?”

Her expression grew defiant; a badass Pippi Longstocking. “I was going to poison Brett.”

I gaped at her. When I could speak, I said, “Jenny, are you insane?”

“I didn’t do it! I was so upset I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew that I couldn’t do
that
. I poured the chemicals out so I wouldn’t be tempted later.”

She started to cry again.

Could she be covering for Vince? But Brett had not been poisoned by the weed killer.

It was a few minutes before I gathered my wits enough to ask, “Why do you think Vince killed Brett?”

“Where was he that day? He said he was painting. He wasn’t painting. There was nothing wet on canvas. There was nothing new. He disappeared around lunchtime and he didn’t come back till late that night. And he already knew Brett was dead. Where was he?”

I shook my head.

“Where was he, Kyle?” Jenny repeated.

* * * * *

Jen had left for the museum by the time I got back from my swim the next day.

I worked all morning, had a tuna salad sandwich and a cup of tea standing in the kitchen looking out toward Adam’s, then gravitated back to the computer. Work is a great refuge for emotional cowards.

I didn’t hear the front door; that’s how engrossed I was. The tap on the study window had me starting up from my chair as though yanked from a dream. Vince peered through the glass, hands framing his face.

I went to the front door, but did not unlatch the screen.

“Can we talk?” he requested mildly enough.

“I don’t know. Last time I tried, you told me to get a lawyer.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight.” His mouth worked. “Where’s Jenny?”

“At work.”

“Are you—? Is she—?”

“I have no idea what’s going on. She asked for a place to spend the night.”

Vince nodded. Gulped again. “Can I talk to you, Kyle? Please?”

Ah, the magic word. I undid the screen door. Vince followed me in, dropped down on the sofa, hands between his legs prayer-style.

“I need a drink.”

Kyle’s Bar and Grill. I went into the kitchen, poured two fresh cups of tea and brought them out to the front room. Vince stared at the tea and laughed shortly. He took a swallow and questioned, “What did Jenny tell you?”

“Not much. She said she needed a place to stay for the night.”

“Did she say she was leaving me?”

The phone rang.

I padded into the kitchen. Micky began speaking as soon as I picked up.

“The sheriff just left.”

“That’s always good news.”

“He wanted to know if I was the model for
Virgin in Pastel
.”

“Were you?”

“No. Of course not. I’m a painter, not a model. What did you tell him, Kyle? Why would he think that?”

“Not a clue.”

“Did you tell him Cosmo and I were lovers?”

“No. Are you kidding? Why would I want that to get out?”

“Well thanks a lot! What a thing to say to me!”

Hypersensitivity was not normally part of Micky’s makeup. I said, “I only mean I’d be the last person to spread the word about my father’s private life.”

“Joel,” she said in dire tones. “I bet it was Joel.”

“Maybe it was no one, Micky. Maybe the sheriff is investigating. It’s what we pay him for.”

She sounded unpersuaded as she rang off, and Joel had my sympathies if he’d betrayed her confidence.

I returned to the front room where Vince was drinking his tea. He wore such a guilty look I was sure he had been eavesdropping.

“Vince,” I said, “I don’t know what I can tell you. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Is she coming back here tonight?”

“No.” I hoped not. I sipped my tea, nearly dropping the cup when Vince asked, “Are you lovers?”

“God no!”

“Then why would she come here?”

“We’re friends.”

“She’s trying to make me jealous.”

“Are you jealous?” I finished the rest of my tea and set the cup down.

“Of you?” He laughed unpleasantly. “No way.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Vince said nothing, simply stared at me with a fixed look.

“Vince?”

He started.

“Is there something more I can do for you?”

It seemed to take him a long time to respond.

“You can promise to keep out of it.”

“No problem.” I stood up too fast and had to steady myself against the sofa arm.

I waited.

Vince made no move to rise.

I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m supposed to be working.”

Another pause.

“What else did she tell you?”

“Nothing. She said she needed a place to spend the night. I said okay and she went to bed. Alone.” The whole topic of Vince and Jenny’s marriage was beginning to make me sick.

Nauseous, in fact.

“Are you okay?” Vince inquired. “You look pale.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

I headed for the bathroom, brushing against an end table and sending it rocking. There was something wrong with my balance. I was dizzy, cold sweat breaking out all over my body.

I slammed into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time. I proceeded to lose my lunch. My breakfast followed in the next spasm.

My body was drenched; my heart thudding. Black spots floated before my eyes as I clung to the porcelain bowl. Was it my heart? Sometimes nausea accompanies an attack.
I need help
, I thought distantly. The next instant I hung over the bowl while my body did its best to reject every organ through my mouth.

When that bout ended, I slid down on the cool tile, too exhausted to move or think. I listened to my heart chugging away in my ears. I wondered if I was dying, and I decided I didn’t care so long as I could lie perfectly still.

I closed my eyes.

* * * * *

“No ambulance,” Joel said. “If we call an ambulance the sheriff will know, and if Kyle’s tried to kill himself—”

“Kill himself? What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t take this stuff by accident.”

“We don’t know what he took—which is why we need to get him to a doctor.”

“If it’s digitalis he didn’t overdose accidentally.”

Adam said furiously, “He didn’t try to kill himself!”

“He could have,” Vince said. “He fixed the tea.”

“Why the hell would he kill himself?”

Into the stricken silence that followed, I mumbled, “I didn’t try to kill myself.”

Immediately there was commotion around me. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. I heard Joel saying urgently, “Kyle, what did you take?”

I opened my eyes. I was lying on the sofa in my front room. Joel was bending over me, repeating his question.

“Nothing.” I tried to sit up. A half dozen hands pressed me back, a chorus of voices ordered me to lie still. I said, “I’m going to throw up.”

Fresh commotion as I was helped into a sitting position. The couch spun once, hard, wheel of fortune style. Someone thrust an empty brass planter under my nose, and I heave-hoed some more, my insides turning out, wringing themselves dry.

Tears of aggravation and self-pity itched their way down my face and plopped into the mess in the planter.

“It’s okay, Kyle,” Adam said kindly from somewhere above me. I recognized his beautiful hands steadying the planter. Perfect.

“Sorry,” I got out, swiping at my cheeks. I shivered back into the sofa cushions and they tucked the blankets and water bottles around me once more. I felt cold all the way through, like I’d been buried for months. As resurrections went, mine left something to be desired.

After a bit I noticed Joel bathing my face with warm scented water, making
sshh-sshh
sounds.

“Kyle, what happened?” Adam asked.

“Not now,” Joel said. “Let him rest.”

I blinked up at them. Vince was standing at the foot of the long sofa looking ashen, which probably made two of us. I said dreamily, “I think Vince put something in my cup.”

“I didn’t!” he squealed.

Adam turned his way. Whatever Vince read on his face caused him to back up. “He was like that when I found him. I swear it!”

“You said he collapsed after he drank his tea.”

“I meant that Kyle already had the tea prepared. He drank it and then he was sick.”

I barely heard him, my eye caught by the displacement of the Chinese Chippendale cabinet against the far wall. That hadn’t been moved in years. Now white linen peeped out from behind one door like a hint of petticoat. I looked around the room. Was it my eyes or were the pictures on the wall crooked? I looked harder. The vase on the mantel was off-center. The drawers of the desk were not flush.

“What were you looking for?” I inquired.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The defense in Vince’s voice could have stopped a linebacker in his cleats.

“I didn’t drug myself,” I said. “I didn’t try to kill myself. You put something in my tea when I got up to answer the phone.”

“Kyle!” Vince gave a laugh like this was preposterous, but the guilt was right there on his sweaty face.

“You fucking
lunatic
,” Adam bit out. “You could have killed him.” He tackled Vince as Vince dove for the door. They crashed into the china cabinet in the dining room.

“I didn’t mean to,” Vince cried.

Joel threw the wet cloth in the bowl of lavender water, splashing us both, and went after them.

“Knock it off, you two!”

More crashing sounds as the three of them fell against the dining room table. I heard chairs scraping, the table groaning. The chandelier tinkled musical warning. I tried to untangle myself from the blankets, gave it up and did a kind of
The Mummy Walks
stagger into the dining room.

Vince was on the floor turning puce while Adam was wordlessly, ferociously occupied in strangling him. Vince’s eyes bulged, his teeth were barred—as were Joel’s, who hauled ineffectually at Adam’s wrists.

“Adam, you crazy bastard,” Joel puffed.

Vince gurgled. His tongue stuck out.

“Adam,” I yelled. I threw myself onto the huddle too.

“Adam, you’re killing him!” Joel cried.

Abruptly Adam loosed Vince. We all rolled away gasping. I considered throwing up again.

“It was an accident,” Vince choked out finally. He looked over at me. “An
accident
.”

I didn’t have the energy to respond, all my concentration on not sliding off the tilting floor.

“Accident!” exclaimed Joel. “How could it be an accident?” He picked himself up painfully. Hobbled over to a chair.

Adam was already on his feet, facing the window that looked out over the garden. He was rubbing the back of his neck. I could see his hands shaking.

“I didn’t know the sleeping pills would affect him like that. They must have interacted with his medication. I only gave him a few.”

“A few! How many is a few?” I demanded.

Vince shrugged helplessly. Then he said, “Look I—I could have just left. I didn’t. I got help, didn’t I? I called Joel. I didn’t have to do that. No one would ever have known.”

Adam wheeled to face us. “You son of a bitch. You didn’t have the guts for murder, that’s all you’re saying.”

“I wasn’t trying to murder him!” Vince faced me. “I wasn’t trying to murder you. Kyle, this is
me
, Vince. You know me.”

I sat up carefully. “What were you looking for?” I asked again.

Vince stared blankly.

“While I was puking my guts out, you were searching for something. What was it?”

Vince wiped his runny nose. “
Virgin in Pastel
,” he admitted at last.

Chapter Thirteen

A
fter Vince had gone, Adam and Joel continued to discuss my impersonation of Linda Blair in
The Exorcist
, damning Vince for every kind of fool, but agreeing that he hadn’t intended me any real harm. Vince’s story was that he had continued to search the house after I passed out, finding nothing.