A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (18 page)

- Nineteen -

Now Campbell turned his angry face in
my
direction, leaping up from the denim couch a second later to hurtle toward me. And his face was breath-stopping scary, so contorted, it was almost unrecognizable from his ginger beard up. Not to mention scarlet.

That was when I remembered it was two against one. And that I hadn’t ever opened my windows. I got ready to scream, anyway. But Campbell beat me to it.

“What!” he bellowed, stopping inches away from me as he clenched his fists convulsively.

“No, sweet-buns, no,” Emma admonished, up and running from the couch a moment after Campbell to squeeze her body between his and mine. She waved a hand in front of his distorted face, then tugged on his short red hair like you’d tug on the fur of an out-of-control dog.

Campbell’s shoulders slumped; he turned and shuffled back to the couch, dropping back down on the denim with his head in his hands. When he looked up again, there was shame on his face where the anger had been. I let out my breath, lungs aching.

Emma turned to me now, her slender shoulders as straight as she could hold them.

“The answer is no,” she declared, her voice trembling. “I did not kill Sam Skyler.” She paused. “And neither did Campbell.”

I believed the first part. But I wasn’t so certain about the second.

After a glimpse of Campbell’s rage, however brief, I was about to join the Quiero Police Department in their assessment of Campbell Barnhill as prime murderer material.

“We were together, holding hands, the whole time the scuba wedding was happening,” Emma told me. “And I wouldn’t lie for a murderer, not even for Campbell.”

Damn, if I didn’t believe her, at least for that moment.

I looked again at Campbell, who muttered miserably, “It’s true,” as he stared at his feet.

One thing I was sure of, this odd couple was really in love.

“Well, do you have any idea who—” I began.

The doorbell cut off my question. It was just as well. If Emma did have any idea who’d killed Sam Skyler, I’m sure she would have spilled it by now. And, more important, no matter who was at the door, it wouldn’t be two against one anymore. I answered the second ring, smiling inanely, glad to be alive and breathing.

The young woman on my doorstep was a tall, well-dressed brunette. She looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure why until she pulled out her tape recorder and shoved it in my face. I dropped the smile.

“Hi, I’m Jeannette from the
San Ricardo Post,”
she chirped brightly. “I’m a friend of Felix Byrne’s.”

Did Felix have friends among his fellow reporters? Somehow I doubted it. Friends shared. And I couldn’t imagine Felix sharing a story. And if this woman knew Felix at all, how could she believe that being his friend would endear herself to me?

So I just said, “Felix who?” tilting my head as if in confusion.

I could hear Emma and Campbell stirring from behind me as Jeannette’s bright smile struggled to remain attached to her face. Inspiration struck, telling me it was time for my own version of performance art.

“Oh, you must be here to speak to Emma Jett,” I sang out enthusiastically. “Creator of the wonderful Connie the Condom series.”

Bingo. Jennette’s smile faltered, then crashed onto the redwood deck.

I turned to Emma, willing her to take her cue. She took it. And Campbell shared it.

They were both on their feet and crowding past me onto the deck with the reporter before I had to make any further introductions. Or fend off any.

“Emma Jett is an incredibly multitalented artist,” Campbell began. “You can put that in your story. She’s a musician—”

“A ‘performance artist’—” I couldn’t help inserting.

“And writes and illustrates the Connie the Condom books,” Campbell finished up. His undistinguished features were gleaming proudly now, all anger forgotten.

“Hey, you two were there when Skyler—” Jeannette began. But she was out-mouthed.

“Connie the Condom is the heroine in my children’s book series,” Emma interrupted loudly. “A pink condom, you know, way cool, with blond curls. She, like, helps little kids get out of trouble.”

“The books are very educational,” Campbell added. “And beautifully illustrated, by Godfrey! The text and illustrations have been featured at the Newmind Gallery…”

Jeannette dropped her tape recorder in her bag and backed down the stairs. If she was a friend of Felix’s, she sure hadn’t picked up his pit bull instincts.

“If you want to, you can make an appointment for an interview,” Emma yelled as Jeanette rushed down the driveway, got in her Honda, and drove away.

“Heh-heh-heh,” Campbell leaked from behind his hand. And then we were all laughing. Hysterically. Bonding is a strange thing. A few minutes ago, I’d been waiting to feel the pressure of Campbell’s hands around my neck. Or at the very least, the impact of a punch. And now I wanted to hug him and Emma.

Until the police showed up, anyway.

I was still in the doorway, and Emma and Campbell were still on the deck yukking it up, when we heard the clomping of nearby feet.

“Having a lot of fun, are we?” asked Chief Woolsey, crossing his arms, his lean features set in that perpetual expression of jaded disgruntlement.

“Yeah,” Officer Fox put in, crossing his own arms.

Emma Jett shriveled before my eyes. She turned to me, her face clearly begging me to delete any references to performance art. Especially performance art of the “dolphin and harpoon thingie” school. Then Campbell turned to me with a pleading expression.

“We were just talking about Emma’s Connie the Condom series,” I said to Woolsey. No, I wouldn’t mention the performance art. Woolsey would harpoon Emma himself if he ever found out.

Woolsey looked confused until Emma began to explain her book series and Campbell chimed in with good reviews.

Woolsey nodded sagely while they spoke.

“Sounds interesting,” he said fifteen minutes later. “A good metaphor for safe sex. A condom who is capable of saving lives.”

Emma’s cat eyes widened slightly; then she went on more enthusiastically, chronicling the adventures of her heroine. I guess she hadn’t expected the chief of the Quiero Police Department to be such a good audience. Nor had Officer Fox apparently, as he’d fidgeted and glared.

But now Fox himself nodded. And pretty soon the four of them were discussing Connie’s brave acts as they walked back down the stairs.

Had Woolsey forgotten his reason for visiting me? Or had he been following Emma and Campbell all along? Or was he just enthralled?

I closed the door softly behind them and peeked out the living room window as my uninvited visitors continued their conversation for another good fifteen minutes, then got in their respective vehicles and left. Woolsey was enthralled, I decided. And if that was so, it would be a good thing for Campbell. It couldn’t hurt his image any if the chief approved of his fiancée. I just hoped I was right in believing Emma when she said Campbell wasn’t a murderer.

I went back to my Jest Gifts paperwork. It was looking more appealing to me suddenly. My mind was actually engaged by the intricacies of payroll-tax charts when the doorbell rang again, another fifteen minutes later. Damn. What if the Quiero police hadn’t forgotten me after all?

But when I opened the door, only Emma was there, looking incredibly vulnerable for all the brass studs in her ears and nostrils.

“I just wanted to thank you,” she whispered and threw her arms around me in a tight hug. Then she turned to run back down the stairs.

“Emma,” I shouted after her.

She turned.

“Be good,” I told her sternly.

“At my art?” she threw back, winking.

Then a another possible piece fell into place.

“Are you the one who called the Skyler Institute and told one of the puppet women that we knew who killed their leader?” I asked.

Emma’s face fell. “Uh-huh,” she admitted, hanging her head. Then she muttered, “I’m sorry, Kate,” before running the rest of the way down the stairs.

I went back to my desk, but my mind was distracted now as I plodded through the tax charts. Would a woman tell the truth about all the rotten things she’d done and then lie about murder? It was possible. I wanted to ask Wayne. I needed to ask Wayne.

And I couldn’t resist asking Wayne when he walked in the door, even though it meant I had to admit to talking to suspects. Alone. Two against one, etc.,
etc.

But Wayne just sighed when I told him Emma and Campbell had come and gone, that long, deep sigh he was so good at. And he advised keeping any future visitors on the deck, nosy neighbors or no nosy neighbors.

I recounted the whole visit then, toning down Campbell’s anger as much as I could while Wayne cooked something that smelled of fresh lemon grass and galanga and basil. Thai tonight. I alternately salivated and babbled until I was finished with my tale and had set the table, carefully omitting any mention of my earlier visit to the Olcott Johnson Funeral Home. Admitting to that trip would probably elicit more than a sigh.

One good sniff of the Thai vegetable curry over cellophane noodles, and Emma and Campbell slipped out of my mind as smoothly as the food went into my mouth. I savored a touch of red chili and coconut on my tongue, and then just let the flavors overwhelm me. I was still panting with pleasure when Wayne finally offered an opinion.

“I believe her,” he said.

“Who?” I asked, slurping bits of vegetables, noodles, and seitan, murder completely forgotten.

“Emma,” he replied with a fond smile in my direction. The man still loved to watch me eat, earlier sighs notwithstanding.

He was a good man with a good heart. I took a quick break to circle the table and kiss him on his delicious mouth, before returning to stuff mine again.

Because I believed Emma too. At least I wanted to.

By Friday morning, my doubts and I were back at my desk while Wayne toiled away in the back room at his own administrivia. I signed a paycheck.
Performance art. Acting.
Could Emma have known that confessing to the minor sins would make me believe her when she said she wouldn’t cover up for a murderer? I stabbed at the keys of my adding machine. Could she be just as calculating?

I even began to wonder about Tessa as I practiced my tai chi form that night surrounded by classmates. Had she hit
herself
on the head with that candlestick? As my body turned during the rollback sequence, my arm swinging back and over in the general direction of my own head, I realized
I
could bonk myself on the noggin. Easily. And the candlestick incident had certainly worked to put Tessa out of the running as a murder suspect. At least in my mind. Had the police come to the same conclusion?

And then there was Nathan, I thought, my body moving forward in the press movement. And Diana. And Martina. And…The circle of suspects dancing through my head became as complex and repetitive as the tai chi form itself. And just as difficult to master.

Saturday was a Wedding Ritual class day for Wayne and me again. It had been exactly one week since Sam Skyler died. I was ready for action, whether Wayne was or not. I would center myself and concentrate, the way I should have in my tai chi class the night before. But this time I’d concentrate on murder.

I didn’t even let Yvonne O’Reilley’s potbellied pig, chickens, and llama distract me as I closed the gate of the chainlink fence behind Wayne’s Jaguar. At least not too much. Even averting my eyes, it was hard to ignore the competing sounds of wind chimes, grunts, clucks, moos, and other animal noises, a couple of which Old McDonald had probably never heard in his whole long life.

I patted the rough surface of the stone Buddha for luck before we went through Yvonne’s open doorway. And shielded my eyes against the rainbow kitsch I knew would assault them.

“Hey, Kate,” two voices said as one when Wayne and I stepped in. Emma Jett and Ray Zappa.

They both swiveled their heads at each other as if astounded to be sharing the same phrase. Tessa and Campbell were a little slower with their own sideways glances.

Then Ray shuffled my way, his hand outstretched, his handsome face a screen of conflicting emotions. But I couldn’t have told you exactly what those emotions were. Or what their source was for that matter.

He shook my hand when he got to me, a careful sweaty handshake, whispering a brief thanks for “taking care of Tessa.”

And then I got it. I’d helped the woman he was in love with. Friendliness, gratitude. But she had called me instead of him. Jealousy and anger. And then there was the built-in cop’s suspicion of my actions. Maybe even of Tessa’s actions. No wonder his face was twitching.

Campbell was next in line to thank me and shake my hand. At least his hand wasn’t sweaty. I gave him a quick hug, embarrassed by all this gratitude, and pushed him back toward Emma. Because people were watching.

Ona squinted my way and then turned her gaze thoughtfully toward Emma. But Emma’s eyes were on Yvonne now. And Yvonne was watching Martina, who was watching Tessa, who was eyeing Nathan. Nathan for his part seemed to be scanning the whole crowd. His eyes stopped when they reached Perry, however. I turned to Wayne. His gaze was firmly fixed on me. I hoped
he
at least was thinking of wedding ceremonies instead of murder. On second thought, I decided I’d rather he had his mind on murder.