Read Online Death hits the fan by Jaqueline Girdner - Free Book Online
Authors: Jaqueline Girdner
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hiding?
"Well, lots of people have access to syringes," he mumbled. He lifted his head, but then I saw the evasion in his flat, round features too. A sick little butterfly fluttered in my stomach right below the pastry. Ivan was Wayne's friend. I hadn't even thought of him as a suspect, but that look—
"I mean, Marcia's ex was a doctor, and Phyllis Oberman is an acupuncturist," the bookseller went on, his voice going faster and higher. "And Dean's an anesthesiologist."
"Who had motive?" Wayne demanded brusquely. I shot a quick glance his way. Wayne's face was cold now, angry. He'd noticed Ivan's obvious dissimulation, too. When a friend asks for help, it's better if that friend shares his information with his would-be helpers. And Ivan wasn't sharing well.
In fact, Ivan looked like he was going to sigh again, but PMP interjected with a shrill whistle.
"I just don't know," Ivan groaned miserably. The misery, at least, was real. I was sure of that. He clasped his hands together. "I feel like I should know, of all people. The only strange thing that's been going on is, well. . ." He stopped and looked around again. It was still just us and the bird. And we were all getting impatient. "I've wondered if Marcia's been stealing books," he finally whispered, so low it took me a moment to realize what he'd said.
But PMP picked it up right away.
"Stealing books, stealing books!" she screamed. Ivan whirled around to glare at the bird. She whistled and chirped, "Stooo-pid bird, shut up." Was it my imagination, or was there a real apology in her chirp?
"Go on," Wayne told Ivan, his interest evident in the tilt of his body.
"First editions, from my special collection," Ivan whispered, his voice even lower. "Too many to be a random thief. At first, I thought I'd just remembered incorrectly, but the inventory kept coming up wrong. I even tried hiding the more valuable ones, but they're still disappearing." He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head, eyes glazed. "But still, I can't believe it's connected with Shayla's ... oh dear, you know what I mean. I've asked myself how it could be. And Marcia. Well, Marcia, she's not all that bad."
Only bad enough to make life a misery, I thought, especially for a man like Ivan who most of all wanted everyone to agree, everyone to be comfortable, everything to be in harmony. Thievery and murder wouldn't fit into his well-constructed escape into fiction.
"Anybody besides you know where you hid them?" Wayne kept on inexorably.
Ivan got that evasive look again. But then he shrugged his shoulders and the look was gone. "My son, Neil, but you know Neil. He's a good kid. He can't. He wouldn't—"
"Who else had a motive to murder Shayla?" I asked, unable to bear Ivan's misery any longer. I could even smell it in the air, over the scent of raspberry and books.
"Well," he said, a welcome gleam of gossip in his eyes again. "There were the other two authors. And Ted did do the alien psychic routine first—"
"Did Shayla steal his idea?" I asked. "Did it make him mad?"
Ivan wrinkled his forehead. A gossip he was, but not easy with serious accusations.
"No, I don't think so," he finally replied. "No to either question." He shook his head. "They were similar ideas, but people come up with similar ideas all the time. How could Ted be angry? All ideas arise from the same life source, the same archetypes. And Adams and Smith did their alien sleuths before either Shayla or Ted. Though Shayla was more successful than any of them. But still, I just can't believe—"
"How about Yvette?" I demanded. It was too hard to listen to Ivan arguing with himself. I knew neither side would ever win. "Is she nuts or what?"
Ivan smiled gently. Affection, for Yvette? "Nuts, maybe," he agreed. "But in a highly creative way. And very prolific. She and Lou are a wonderful pair. He supports her all the way."
Lou—there'd been something about Lou. Then I remembered. It'd been nudging my subconscious all the way
"Well, lots of people have access to syringes," he mumbled. He lifted his head, but then I saw the evasion in his flat, round features too. A sick little butterfly fluttered in my stomach right below the pastry. Ivan was Wayne's friend. I hadn't even thought of him as a suspect, but that look—
"I mean, Marcia's ex was a doctor, and Phyllis Oberman is an acupuncturist," the bookseller went on, his voice going faster and higher. "And Dean's an anesthesiologist."
"Who had motive?" Wayne demanded brusquely. I shot a quick glance his way. Wayne's face was cold now, angry. He'd noticed Ivan's obvious dissimulation, too. When a friend asks for help, it's better if that friend shares his information with his would-be helpers. And Ivan wasn't sharing well.
In fact, Ivan looked like he was going to sigh again, but PMP interjected with a shrill whistle.
"I just don't know," Ivan groaned miserably. The misery, at least, was real. I was sure of that. He clasped his hands together. "I feel like I should know, of all people. The only strange thing that's been going on is, well. . ." He stopped and looked around again. It was still just us and the bird. And we were all getting impatient. "I've wondered if Marcia's been stealing books," he finally whispered, so low it took me a moment to realize what he'd said.
But PMP picked it up right away.
"Stealing books, stealing books!" she screamed. Ivan whirled around to glare at the bird. She whistled and chirped, "Stooo-pid bird, shut up." Was it my imagination, or was there a real apology in her chirp?
"Go on," Wayne told Ivan, his interest evident in the tilt of his body.
"First editions, from my special collection," Ivan whispered, his voice even lower. "Too many to be a random thief. At first, I thought I'd just remembered incorrectly, but the inventory kept coming up wrong. I even tried hiding the more valuable ones, but they're still disappearing." He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head, eyes glazed. "But still, I can't believe it's connected with Shayla's ... oh dear, you know what I mean. I've asked myself how it could be. And Marcia. Well, Marcia, she's not all that bad."
Only bad enough to make life a misery, I thought, especially for a man like Ivan who most of all wanted everyone to agree, everyone to be comfortable, everything to be in harmony. Thievery and murder wouldn't fit into his well-constructed escape into fiction.
"Anybody besides you know where you hid them?" Wayne kept on inexorably.
Ivan got that evasive look again. But then he shrugged his shoulders and the look was gone. "My son, Neil, but you know Neil. He's a good kid. He can't. He wouldn't—"
"Who else had a motive to murder Shayla?" I asked, unable to bear Ivan's misery any longer. I could even smell it in the air, over the scent of raspberry and books.
"Well," he said, a welcome gleam of gossip in his eyes again. "There were the other two authors. And Ted did do the alien psychic routine first—"
"Did Shayla steal his idea?" I asked. "Did it make him mad?"
Ivan wrinkled his forehead. A gossip he was, but not easy with serious accusations.
"No, I don't think so," he finally replied. "No to either question." He shook his head. "They were similar ideas, but people come up with similar ideas all the time. How could Ted be angry? All ideas arise from the same life source, the same archetypes. And Adams and Smith did their alien sleuths before either Shayla or Ted. Though Shayla was more successful than any of them. But still, I just can't believe—"
"How about Yvette?" I demanded. It was too hard to listen to Ivan arguing with himself. I knew neither side would ever win. "Is she nuts or what?"
Ivan smiled gently. Affection, for Yvette? "Nuts, maybe," he agreed. "But in a highly creative way. And very prolific. She and Lou are a wonderful pair. He supports her all the way."
Lou—there'd been something about Lou. Then I remembered. It'd been nudging my subconscious all the way
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