A Stiff Critique by Jaqueline Girdner Read Free Book Online Page B

fluttered around like crazed butterflies. “And it appears that I am in this situation whether or not I like it.” Then she leaned forward, crossed her arms and stared at me without blinking.
    I hate that. It even works when my cat does it.
    “How about asking the group members if any of them visited Slade at five o’clock?” I suggested after another minute of the treatment.
    “That’s exactly what I plan to do,” Carrie said, leaning back in her chair. “At least if I can reach each of them on the telephone to schedule an emergency meeting.”
    I took a bite of salad as I tried to think. It was perfect, full of vegetables dressed with a tart marinade flavored with more garlic and herbs. Mentally, I identified chervil and tarragon. I looked back up to ask Carrie if I was right.
    She was staring at me again.
    “So tell me more about the group members,” I said quickly. “Anything weird or suspicious, aside from Donna’s family?”
    Carrie looked up at the ceiling for a moment. That was a good start. She wasn’t staring at me anymore. I ate another forkful of salad and took a bite of bread while she was occupied.
    “I can all too easily imagine Nan Millard killing someone for a good deal of money or status,” Carrie said after another couple of bites. Mine not hers. “But how would killing Slade get her either? In fact, she has actually lost status now that her famous lover is dead.”
    I nodded my understanding, my mouth too full to say anything.
    “And as for Joyce—”
    “She’s the one that started Operation Soup Pot, isn’t she?” I mumbled through my mouthful. “A quiet Buddhist, right?”
    Carrie nodded. “Slade was always trying to date the poor woman. And she was no more interested in him than I was.” Carrie grinned. “I believe Joyce found it a wee bit difficult to extend her infinite love and compassion to Slade Skinner. Not just because he was so individually obnoxious either. I get the distinct feeling that Joyce isn’t sexually interested in men at all.”
    “Lesbian?” I asked curiously.
    “I don’t think so,” Carrie answered slowly. She circled her fingers as if trying to pluck a description from the air. “Celibate is more like it.”
    I slurped a spoonful of soup. So that was why Nan had agreed that Joyce couldn’t comment on the romantic angle of her story. Now it made sense. The soup tasted of more garlic and herbs. Not that I would have complained. The soup was as good as everything else.
    “Russell Wu has the most obvious connection to crime,” Carrie commented, looking back up at the ceiling.
    “What connection?” I asked eagerly.
    “I told you earlier, Kate. He writes true-crime books.”
    “Oh,” I mumbled, disappointed. Somehow, I figured someone analytical enough to write about true crime probably wasn’t going to commit a crime. On the other hand—
    “Tell me all about this Russell guy,” I ordered.
    “He’s a published writer,” Carrie obliged. “He has two books out. One that he ghosted for an illiterate mass murderer three years ago. Another about that nursing home aide who was helping his patients on to the great beyond.” She wiggled her shoulders. “It gives me the creeps. I don’t know how Russell can stand working with these people. Now he’s working on the story of that musician in San Jose who was—or at least is alleged to have been—killing the groupies who hung around after his shows. Russell has to wait out the trial before he can do his last chapter. It won’t work without a guilty verdict.”
    “Why is Russell so interested in mass murder?” I asked.
    Carrie shrugged massively. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Russell is a killer. He’s very gentle, soft-spoken—”
    “So are half the mass murderers they arrest,” I interrupted. “You know, all the neighbors say what a nice, quiet boy he was after the fact. How they never suspected. It’s classic.”
    “That’s why I would like you to come to the emergency