Death hits the fan (8 page)

At first I thought he was joking, but a glance at his rocklike face convinced me he wasn't.

I started to swivel my head for a look.

"No, look in the rearview mirror," he ordered.

I did. Wayne was, after all, a former bodyguard. This was his area of expertise. And when I looked into my rearview mirror, I saw a battered, old, red VW bus behind us.

Just for fun, I took a turn off the main road. The bus took the turn too.

I drove back to the main road, keeping an even speed with

difficulty. I could still see the red hulk behind us. Then I saw the local health food store where Ivan had picked up our pastries. I jerked the wheel, pulling into the parking lot with shaking hands. What the hell, I told myself, I wanted a tofu burger for lunch anyway. We walked into the store nonchalantly. I got my tofu burger. Wayne chose a soba noodle salad and ratatouille for himself. I made him promise not to show Ingrid our food. We'd eat in the car and come home empty-handed, thus reducing her to a further diet of Whol-ios and soy milk. I didn't even mention the old VW as we stood in the checkout line and returned to the parking lot with our purchases. But it was still there, parked a couple of rows away.

We watched the bus from the rearview mirror as we scarfed down health food. I couldn't see any face, just the front bumper. No one moved. No one got out of the bus. No one got in. And when I pulled back out of the parking lot, the old VW was with us.

"Should I try to lose the van?" 1 asked Wayne. As if I could. "We have to go home sometime."

"Probably knows where we live anyway," Wayne replied glumly.

So I drove home slowly as the VW bus followed us, even turning down our street, only passing as we wheeled into our driveway. Then it was gone in a flash of red.

Wayne and I turned to each other.

"Did you see his face?" I demanded.

"No," he said. "And the license plates were covered in mud."

"Oh."

We were both completely spooked. Who had followed us? And why?

We were still asking each other unanswerable questions when we walked into the living room.

Ingrid was there. I'd actually forgotten about her.

But we had another visitor too, Bob Xavier.

And for once, he wasn't yelling.

Six

^F)ut what was Bob Xavier doing in our living room, anyway? The threat of police intervention had been enough to drive him away last night. What was different about today?

Bob smiled broadly and got up from the swinging chair. Ingrid stayed where she was, huddled on the floor, arms around her crossed legs, an orphanlike stare on her baby face. Apollo was next to his mistress, quiet for once. I wished he'd at least yip at Bob a little. Actually, Bob was looking quite handsome today, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure, his white teeth gleaming with good dental work.

"Guess who my big brother is?" he challenged, his shark's smile growing wider.

"Cal Xavier," Wayne answered evenly. Nothing on Wayne's face betrayed any of the feelings I knew he had to be having. His face was carved rock. But Bob's face was molten.

First he frowned with disappointment. But then the frown

Death Hits the Fan 67

deepened and his formerly handsome features contorted with anger.

"And that doesn't change the fact that you are unwelcome in this house," Wayne added, still calm. Still quiet.

"Listen, man, I can get you into all kinds of trouble, trouble you can't even imagine," Bob hissed, throwing up his arms. The sour scent of his anger mingled with leftover skunk fumes. "You don't know what the hell you're messing with here—"

"We know," I answered, keeping my voice as calm as Wayne's. My answer was the plain truth, even if my tone was manufactured. I knew exactly what we were messing with. A vicious bully whose brother just might like to pin a murder on that bully's enemies. I only hoped the bully in question didn't notice the tremor that was dancing its way from my brain to my extremities.

"And I'm going to call the police now," I finished up. 1 didn't need Wayne's cue this time. Bob Xavier was a real menace. But as I walked to the phone, a possible happy ending stopped me with one foot still in the air. I turned.

"Unless, well... Ingrid wants to leave with you?" Forget calm and cool. Now I was pleading. Not with Bob. With Ingrid.

I looked at my houseguest, willing her to leave with Bob, psychically pleading with her to get out of our lives. And to take the Verduras police captain's brother with her.

"Well," she said slowly, widening her eyes. "If Bob was a little more reasonable, like about that stupid prenuptial agreement—"

"Hey!" he shouted. "The agreement isn't stupid, get it? I told you before—"

Now I turned my psychic powers on Bob. Please, I thought, please be reasonable. Forget the prenuptial agreement.

Oh, sure.

"You think you can keep messing with me. don'tcha?" he blasted away, ignoring my psychic pleas. "Well. I'm talking here—"

"Not here." Wayne disagreed. "You can talk somewhere else, but not here."

Then Wayne, too. turned his gaze on Ingrid.

"Ingrid. it's up to you whether you stay, or go with Bob." he stated, the slightest quaver of a plea shaking his deep voice.

Ingrid crossed her arms, tilted her head, pushed out her lower lip. and looked up at the ceiling.

"Bob just doesn't understand me." she murmured. "Now Raoul . . ."

If she had wanted to goad her former boyfriend into a further frenzy, she'd done a damn good job.

"Raoul!" he bellowed. "WTio the hell is Raoul?" Then he turned to us. reeking of rage now. "You guys put her up to this. If it weren't for you—"

"You're leaving now." Wayne told him as Apollo belatedly began to yip.

In the end. Bob left. But he was still shouting.

"I'll get you guys for this!" were his last words, trumpeted over his shoulder as he stomped down the front stairs.

Unfortunately, his old threat no longer seemed empty. It seemed full, full to the point of bursting. And I didn't want to be there when it happened.

Wayne turned to Ingrid once Bob had roared off in his Mercedes.

"Maybe it would be better for all concerned—" he began.

"Oh. please, don't throw me out." she begged, her baby-doll face shining with a thin trickle of tears. "You heard him. He's violent . . ."

I put my hands over my ears and crossed the hallway to my office. Now I was shaking with anger, not fear. If I listened to Ingrid's babbling stream of consciousness anymore.

/ would get violent. Or else just curl into a fetal ball and roll away.

No, I admonished myself. No fetal-ball bowling. No In-grid crunching. Forget Ivan. Forget justice. It was time to concentrate on survival. Wayne and I had to figure out who'd murdered Shay la. And fast. Before Captain Cal pinned the crime on us donkeys.

I turned to the telephone and let my fingers do the trudging. It was time to talk to suspects. More than anything, I wanted to get a fix on Shayla, S.X. Greenfree. I still didn't know who the woman was. Or why she'd called out my name, for that matter.

I tapped out Dean's number first from the list Ivan had given us on our way out of Fictional Pleasures. And got to listen to a very gentle, kind, and understanding answering machine. I tried the next number on the list. Winona didn't even have an answering machine. Nor did Ted. And Vince Quadrini was "in conference" according to the alert but intransigent human who answered his phone. I cursed and then remembered that it was Friday, after all. Presumably, everyone was working.

/ should have been working. I glanced at the pile of Jest Gifts paperwork on my desk.

But some kind of pit bull seemed to have control of my fingers. I averted my eyes and punched in another set of numbers on the phone. Bingo. Zoe Ingersoll was in. Shayla's friend. Hopefully, her confidante. And Zoe even agreed to talk to us that evening. Yes!

I still had more than a few hours to practice work-aversion therapy before talking to Zoe. I started to call Phyllis Ober-man's office.

But I had only tapped in two numbers when Wayne interrupted me.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. His face displayed as little sympathy as his voice.

"Calling suspects," I shot back, straightening my backbone into steel and glaring at him. It was a shame I had to tip my head back to look him in the face. It ruined the effect somehow.

I waited for his sigh. For his objections. For his arguments.

But all he said was, "Okay."

I let my spine ease back to its normal spongy state. And told him my plans. Eagerly.

". . . and Zoe is willing to talk to us .. ."

It was then that I remembered that Wayne ran La Fete a LOiel Friday evenings. And it was Friday.

"Right," he said, as if he'd heard my thought. Til call in the assistant manager. We'll go together to Zoe's."

And then we both retreated to our respective home offices. My retreat was the easiest. I just had to turn my head back to my desk.

But I was too wired to deal with stacks of paper. So I shoved the piles of order forms and inventory lists to the side and worked on my new design for a cat-carrier cup for veterinarians, as my mind simmered with strategies and theories and fears, fears being the dominant flavor of the stew.

An hour before our date with Zoe, Wayne reappeared to ask if I wanted dinner.

I looked around. Ingrid was nowhere in sight.

"Let's go out—" I whispered.

"Let Ingrid eat Whol-ios," Wayne whispered back.

"And soy milk," I added, reaching to squeeze his hand. There's nothing like a man who can play Marie Antoinette in a pinch.

We dined on fast-food falafel and tabouleh salad, with turkey shawarma for Wayne, at the local mid-Eastern cafe on the way to Zoe's house in Tiburon.

Zoe was in the less expensive part of Tiburon, not in one of the million-dollar homes with the incredible bay views.

Hers was a pretty, narrow but tall house, painted dove-gray with white trim. We walked up the primrose- and pansy-lined cobblestone path in the twilight and for a moment, there was magic shimmering in the cool air.

I shook away the magic and rang her doorbell. Survival, I reminded myself. Survival.

Zoe answered the door, opening it about six inches and peering out, her moon-shaped face twitchy under her oversized glasses.

"Who's there, Mom?" a voice from behind her demanded.

She jumped, then answered.

"The people to talk about Shay la's signing," she threw back over her shoulder, and opened the door wide enough for us to enter. Then she laughed.

"I'm sorry, I'm all jittery from the steroids I'm taking. And I'm afraid I had a senior moment there," she told us. "Forgot all about you ..."

But I lost the rest of her words as magic overwhelmed me once again. Zoe's living room was layered in panels and panels of tapestry that hung from the high ceiling halfway to the floor. Silk tapestries alive with swirling colors in cloth and dye and stitch and sparkles. A hanging forest of rainbow silken enchantment. I reached out to touch one of the panels, its delicately fringed bottom at my shoulder level.

A dog yapped at my feet. At least this dog was a dachshund, not a terrier.

"Shush!" Zoe admonished and I realized the room was not only hung with enchantment, but alive with animals. Besides the dachshund there were cats, six or seven that I could see right off, and a couple of parakeets in cages. And children.

A girl who looked about thirteen came walking up behind Zoe, her arms crossed. Her face was fragile, but not soft, as she glared at us. An equally fragile-looking boy who couldn't have been much more than eight wandered in behind her

with something in his hands. It was a bright turquoise piece of paper that he was folding carefully.

"My kids," Zoe said. "Zelda and Zack, my little reasons for living. Actually, my big reasons. The Z's were my ex's idea. Now we can all be confused."

"Huh?" I replied, still swirling in silk.

"Mom makes these hangings for a living," Zelda explained, uncrossing her arms. "They always blow people away."

"Beautiful," Wayne murmured. The prince was enchanted too.

"Oh, yeah," Zoe said dismissively. "I'm so used to them, sometimes I forget they're there. You know, duh." She slapped the side of her head. "So, you want to know about Shayla."

That broke the spell. The tapestries were still lovely, but we had work to do. I brought my eyes back to Zoe. Such an odd-looking woman with that moon face atop her small and slender body. She wore a turtleneck and jeans, and her fine brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and secured with a rubber band. Clearly she saved her experiments in beauty for her work. Her daughter watched me expectantly.

"I'm Kate." I introduced myself quickly, stretching my hand out to Zelda. She shook it tentatively. "And this is Wayne."

I didn't even try with the boy. His eyes were still focused on the paper in his hand, which was beginning to resemble a bird. Origami?

"Oh yeah, have a seat," Zoe offered.

We sat on a couch covered with some of the same shimmering material that hung from the ceiling, only this tapestry looked as if a great many claws had added their own artistic efforts. In a way I was glad. I couldn't have sat comfortably on an intact piece of art this beautiful.

Once we were seated, Zoe pulled up a chair and sat down

across from us. She wiggled her shoulders and then looked at the floor. As a cat jumped into her lap, her daughter stepped behind her like a bodyguard.

"So," Wayne began tentatively. "We, uh ..."

His words whooshed out of him as a large marmalade cat leapt onto his lap. We were surrounded. The dachshund settled near my feet and a calico cat claimed my thighs. At least she was smaller than Wayne's marmalade. And she didn't appear to be a thigh-clawer either. C.C. could have taken lessons from her.

"That's how I met Shayla," Zoe continued, as if she'd been asked. "Through her husband, Scott. See, he's an architect, and some of the people he builds for commission my hangings." She tapped her hand on the arm of her chair and wiggled her round head on her thin neck as her son wandered through the silken forest on his way out of the room.