A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (19 page)

- Twenty -

I thought I heard a muffled chuckle behind me, but Wayne’s face showed nothing when I turned around to accuse him. Did he know about this perfect wedding theme? No, I decided, he was probably just laughing at the way all my hair was standing on end.

“Guess we’d better call her,” was all he said.

He was right. Aunt Dorothy was not to be left alone for long periods of time with access to wedding books. It was altogether too dangerous.

“We’re going out to dinner with Steve’s friends from the funeral,” I told my aunt once I got her on the phone. “Would you like to come along?” I was ready to do anything to divert her from wedding plans. Though I did have a glimmer of curiosity as to what she thought a perfect wedding theme might be. Murder? Fear? Wedding phobia?

“Oh, my,” she breathed. “I’ll be right over.”

“No,” I told her quickly. “We’ll pick you up. There’s no use wasting two cars. “And that way we could drop her right back at her hotel if she digressed into wedding themes. Of course, I didn’t say that.

Ten minutes later we drove up to Aunt Dorothy’s hotel. Prompt as ever, she was ready for us in the lobby, dressed to interrogate in a forest green business suit and pearls.

“So,” I put in quickly once I was safely behind the wheel of my Toyota with Wayne at my side and Dorothy in the back seat. “We’re meeting Steve’s friends at this really cool restaurant. It’s called Mushrooms because almost everything they serve is made with mushrooms, and—”

“Don’t you want to know about the theme, Katie?” my aunt interrupted. I was shocked. Dorothy was usually far too polite to interrupt, but I suppose she knew she wouldn’t ever have gotten a word in edgewise if she hadn’t. Unfortunately, my shock stopped my mouth long enough for her to insert a whole edge, middle, top, and bottom into the conversation.

“The theme,” she announced, “is cats.”

“Cats?” Wayne and I both exclaimed at once. So, he hadn’t known after all.

“Oh, yes,” Dorothy went on, warming to her idea. “I know how you two love your little kitty, C. C, so I thought perhaps you could both dress as cats. Remember how they did in that Broadway musical? And then,” she paused breathlessly, “C. C. can be part of the wedding.”

I opened my mouth to object. I knew that cat had been plotting something with my aunt! Then I heard a groan escape from Wayne’s lips.

“C. C. is such a sweet cat…” my aunt went on.

I gripped the steering wheel and whispered into Wayne’s ear, “Hardee-har-har.” I was tempted to add, “nyah, nyah,” but even I have my limits.

Wayne glowered my way. Well, he was the one who’d wanted a formal wedding—let it be cats.

“…party favors with little cat faces…” my aunt persisted.

“And the guests could bring their cats, too,” I suggested once Dorothy had burbled to an end, imagining the cat fight that would ensue.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Do you suppose they would all get along?”

“Um, almost to Mushrooms,” Wayne put in. “The two men we’re meeting are Gus Swanson and Neil Lennon.” Was
Wayne
diverting the subject from my aunt’s wedding plans? “They were journalists who worked with Steve.”

“I see,” Aunt Dorothy said cheerfully. And I was sure that she did. Had she been putting us on about the cats?

We hadn’t been to Mushrooms in a long time. The windowless cavern of a restaurant was still lit softly, but instead of seashells, there were now small, lit toadstools at each table, along with the lighted aquariums that were scattered around the room. At least whale music still played in the background. And the food smelled wonderful, redolent of garlic, onions, and all the other things that make life worthwhile.

Gus and Neil were barely visible in the murky light, but we finally spotted them at the bar.

“Hey, there,” Neil yelled and waved our way, alighting from his bar stool to smile at us. Gus nodded in our direction, then turned back to the bar. The men would have been hard to confuse even if it weren’t for Neil’s smile and Gus’s surly greeting. Neil was tall, with thinning red hair that matched his thin body, and Gus was burly, with thick black waves of hair that somehow matched his personality.

It took a while to get our seats. Even at five o’clock there was a crowd, and Gus wanted to finish his drink. But finally, we were seated at our own table with our own toadstool.

“So, you were friends of Steve’s?” my aunt began mildly.

“I wouldn’t exactly say ‘friends’,” Gus muttered.

“Colleagues,” Neil tried, blushing.

“You spoke at Steve’s funeral,” I reminded the men.

“Neil’s idea,” Gus rumbled. “You know, poor widow, all that cra—junk.”

“I take it you didn’t particularly like Steve?” I led Gus.

But our waiter arrived before I could lead Gus very far. I was just glad our waiter wasn’t dressed as a toadstool—shiny black pants and a white shirt were a nice change from spotted owl feathers.

“Our specials tonight are mushroom crepes, wild rice and mushrooms with fresh herbs and salmon, and vegan mushroom and almond croquets topped with a curried avocado sauce,” he recited.

We thanked him. That is, everyone but Gus thanked him. Then we surveyed our regular menus, dipping them into the dim light provided by the toadstool lamp.

“Oh, my,” my aunt cooed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had mushroom manicotti before. It sounds delicious.”

“I’ll stick with chicken and mushrooms,” Gus declared, shutting his menu decisively.

“So,” I began again. “You and Steve didn’t really get along—”

The sight of our bread arriving at the table knocked the rest of the words out of my mouth. But the bread was worth it: brown and rich, and baked in the shape of fist-sized mushrooms.

I had just taken a bite of the bread when Neil spoke.

“Steve Summers was a really great writer,” he offered.

“Just not so great with the old social skills,” Gus followed up.

I resisted the urge to ask if he considered himself an expert on social skills.

“Tell us more,” my aunt suggested.

“Steve was a quiet man, an observer,” Neil complied.

“Had to be quiet with that wife of his dominating his world,” Gus explained gracelessly. “He got sucked into her life. His role as a political spouse overtook his job as a writer. Damn shame.”

“Did Steve and Laura get along?” I asked.

Neil nodded and opened his mouth, but Gus beat him to the reply.

“Of course they got along,” he said. “They were both absolutely sure that they knew what was right for everyone else but themselves.”

Gus laughed. Dorothy offered an encouraging smile. I reminded myself that Gus was the best of our two sources. Neil probably wouldn’t ever say anything critical of Steve Summers; Gus was more than willing.

Our waiter returned before Gus could say much more, though, and we all ordered: Gus got his chicken and mushrooms; Dorothy ordered the manicotti; Neil and Wayne both chose the crepes; and I asked for the croquets.

And then we turned back to the topic of Steve.

“Steve really cared about people with problems,” Neil went on. “His writing was top rate, but his underlying compassion was what made it really work.”

“Yeah, Steve loved humanity. It was people he couldn’t stand,” Gus commented. For a moment, I let myself wonder how original Gus’s own writing was. “The man was a do-gooder, and God help you if you got in the way of his do-gooding.”

It was then that I realized I hadn’t heard a word from Wayne, except for his order. I turned to look at him. How was he taking Gus’s characterization of a man he’d cared for? Not well; Wayne’s face had turned to granite, his eyebrows had lowered, and his breathing was almost still. Damn.

“Have you guys ever been to Mushrooms before?” I asked, hoping to lighten things up.

I
did
find out one thing during dinner: Gus’s only complaint in life wasn’t about Steve Summers. He could complain about anything. And did.

“Why isn’t there any light in here?” he demanded. “And what’s with the toadstools? Are they supposed to be cute or something?”

“Something,” I answered.

Neil smiled. I wondered what his friendship with Gus did for him. But then, I’d seen many similar pairs of friends, lovers, and spouses before: One kind, one blunt; one saying nice things, the other saying the things the first one couldn’t. Neil and Gus, as a pair, were a type.

By the time our dinners came, I was glad I didn’t have to be Gus’s friend. And then I lost myself in the food. The mushroom and almond croquets were so good, I wanted a private place to enjoy them. The avocado sauce was perfectly curried, and the side dishes of carrot salad, sesame rice, and mushroom pate were worth a few groans of delight just in themselves.

I glanced over at Wayne again. He was eating. And from the way he rolled the food around in his mouth, I knew he was savoring his crepes. High praise from a chef, even if it
was
non-verbal.

After eating for a while in silence, Dorothy got the conversational ball rolling again.

“Steve Summers was much admired by some in the journalism arena,” she threw out.

Gus fielded the ball.

“He wrote some good stuff early on,” he admitted. “But he barely wrote at all at the end. He was too much in his wife’s shadow.”

“Was he angry about that?” my aunt pressed.

Gus frowned. “It was hard to tell with Steve. I never saw him angry in real life. He got his jollies in his self-righteous articles—”

“Now, that’s not fair,” Neil protested.

“Sure it is,” Gus argued, turning to his friend. “For all the do-gooding, didn’t you notice how he always managed to stab some poor sucker in the back with his writing? Made me look Goddamn friendly in comparison.”

“He may have been occasionally cruel,” Neil admitted. “But he didn’t do it intentionally.”

“Huh! Look at Dutton Cole,” Gus insisted, bending over the table as if to shove his words down his friend’s throat along with his food. “Steve Summers killed Dutton Cole with that Goddamned article, and you can’t tell me otherwise.” Gus sat back now, arms crossed.

“What article was that?” I asked. We had been looking for someone who was angry with Steve, and if this Dutton Cole had a loved one in the group, we might have just hit pay dirt.

Gus leaned forward again, eager to tell us.

“Steve originally met Dutton through Laura,” he began his story in a whisper that could probably be heard on the other side of the crowded restaurant. “Dutton was the CEO muckety-muck of one of the biggest Silicon Valley outfits, Mr. Charity, a do-gooder from the word ‘go.’ Everyone liked him. Everyone wanted their kids to grow up and be him. Then he made his big mistake: He and Steve were talking one day, all buddy-buddy, when Dutton admitted that he was secretly gay. Steve went into this big song and dance about how Dutton oughta tell the world he was gay, to support all the other closeted gays out there. Dutton said no way. But that didn’t stop Steve. Steve wrote the story anyway. Some sort of rah-rah thing about how a gay man could make it to the top, even in Silicon Valley. Of course, very few people had known Dutton Cole was gay at all before the story.”

“It was supposed to be inspirational,” Neil tried.

“Oh, sure,” Gus sneered. “Only if it was inspired by the fact that Steve really hated Dutton Cole.”

“No,” Neil insisted. “You’ve got it all wrong. Steve was trying to make a point. It was supposed to be a success story.”

“Some success story!” Gus snorted. “Dutton killed himself.”

“What?” I asked.

Neil just shook his head sadly. Gus finished the story.

“Dutton just couldn’t take the publicity,” he explained. “He wasn’t ready. His parents didn’t even know. When the article came out, he put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

Suddenly my croquets didn’t taste so good anymore. Why hadn’t Steve talked about the Dutton Cole story when the Heartlink members were all talking about their worst secrets? I wondered. And then I realized that Steve probably didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He probably just thought Dutton Cole hadn’t appreciated a great story. I was beginning to adopt something close to Gus’s view of the late Steve Summers. To Steve, I imagined, global good had probably been everything. If individuals were hurt for a greater cause, so be it. I’d known people with that attitude before. I didn’t want to know any more of them.

“Did Dutton have any friends or family connected with the Heartlink group?” my Aunt Dorothy probed, bringing me back to earth from my high moral ground.

“Heartlink?” Neil asked.

“Steve’s men’s group,” Wayne explained.

“I doubt it,” Neil said. “This was years ago—five, six, seven, maybe. Dutton’s parents are dead now. Most of his friends have probably drifted away.”

“It’s one thing to be the friend of a famous CEO, but it’s another to be the friend of a dead gay guy,” Gus summed up.

Aunt Dorothy enunciated the names of the suspects, one by one, asking if any of them had been connected with Dutton Cole.

Both Gus and Neil shook their heads at the mention of each name, except for Laura Summers. But that was just because she’d introduced Dutton to Steve. She hadn’t really known him very well, outside of that initial encounter.