A Stiff Critique by Jaqueline Girdner Read Free Book Online

Carrie collapsed into her chair. “Oh hell,” she whispered, looking at the empty surface of the desk. “Maybe Donna’s family really is Mafia.”
    At first, the word “Mafia” just bounced off of my fatigued mind. But on the second bounce, it sank in.
    “What!” I shouted.
    Carrie looked up at me, her perspiration-drenched face apparently calm now that she had delivered her bombshell.
    “Donna Palmer,” she explained quietly. Then she raised her hands and started waving them in the air, belying that quietness. “I told you she’s writing a Mommy Dearest about her family.” She took a deep breath, then went on. “Well, she claims her family is ‘da Family,’ if you know what I mean.”
    “Organized crime?”
    She nodded.
    “And you think those guys in Armani suits are part of the family?” I whispered. My sweaty shirt felt cold against my skin.
    Carrie nodded again solemnly. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand.
    “Why do you think so?” I asked her, my voice too high even in my own ears.
    “Because Donna warned us they might show up.”
    “Donna warned you?” I said and slumped down onto the desktop. Its sharp edges weren’t very comfortable, but Carrie had already taken the only chair in the room. “You mean you knew these guys were going to show up?”
    “Not exactly,” Carrie said.
    “What the hell do you mean by ‘not exactly.’“
    “Let’s go make dinner,” she suggested. “And I will tell you about Donna.”
    “Wait a minute,” I protested. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”
    “Do you think it would do any good?” she asked back, tilting her head as she looked up at me.
    “Of course it would,” I answered. “You know who the guys were—”
    “Not specifically,” Carrie corrected me. “Donna never named anyone specifically. And I didn’t see the men’s faces just now, only their backs. And I would doubt that they left any fingerprints.” She took one last swipe at her damp forehead, then stood up and straightened her shoulders. “Let’s talk about it in the kitchen.”
    “But what if these guys murdered Slade?” I objected.
    Carrie frowned for a moment, then said, “I doubt it,” and turned to leave the study.
    I opened my mouth to argue. But I knew from experience it did no good to argue with Carrie. So I closed my mouth and followed her as she made her way back to the kitchen at a far more leisurely pace than she had left it. So did Basta, Yipper and Sinbad, each one returning to his own individual bowl like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And for them, nothing probably had. Seen through their animal eyes this latest example of human behavior had to be incomprehensible at best. But I needed to know more.
    “Tell me everything,” I ordered as Carrie opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bulb of garlic.
    “If you wish,” she murmured, carefully peeling a section of the garlic bulb. “Donna claims her family made their money originally through gambling, prostitution and loan-sharking activities. A very enterprising clan.” She began mincing the garlic. “She also says her family subjected her to neglect, ‘verbal abuse’ and various kinds of ‘emotional oppression.’“ She glanced over at me, as if for comment.
    “Well, that part sounds pretty normal,” I obliged.
    I’d lived in Marin long enough to figure “neglect” could mean not getting your parents to give you the money for that new pair of sunglasses, “verbal abuse” might be your parents explaining why, and “emotional oppression” was the result when they asked you to go to your own room to scream about it.
    On the other hand, I knew all three descriptions could stand for truly cruel acts.
    “Do you think her family was really mean to her?” I asked.
    Carrie shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with Donna,” she muttered. She splashed a little sesame oil in the saucepan and turned the stove on. “Would you like to slice the