A Stiff Critique by Jaqueline Girdner Page A

suspense component—Who is this someone?” She paused.
    “Who does it turn out to be?” I asked, caught up in her secondhand recital.
    “I don’t know,” she answered. “I haven’t finished it yet.”
    I was surprised at my own disappointment. I really wanted to know. Either Slade had been a good writer or Carrie was a good storyteller. Or both. I took another piece of bread as a consolation prize.
    “So, is it well written?” I asked with my mouth full.
    “Hell, yes,” Carrie grumbled. “That is what’s so aggravating—or was so aggravating—about Slade. He was a damn good writer. His Cool Fallout characters are wonderful. A man who did the wheeling and dealing in the sixties is a banker now. And Slade makes you believe it. And the woman who killed the sheriff has become a Catholic nun. Then there’s the firebrand leader who became an actor and is now dying of AIDS.” She shook her head ruefully. “Good stuff.”
    “It sounds like it,” I muttered. “Now I want to read the damn thing.”
    “Well, you’ve got a copy,” Carrie pointed out. “And Slade—”
    But then the dogs and the cat went crazy again, exploding into a bedlam of sounds that drowned out the rest of her words. They yowled and howled and yipped as they ran from the kitchen. But this time they didn’t head for the back door. They headed for the front.
    I looked at Carrie. She looked back at me. And her eyes were wide again.
     

 
    - Five -
     
    Carrie continued to stare across the table at me as the pounding of my pulse joined in a rhythmic counterpoint to the raucous animal sounds. Who the hell was at the door this time? We’d already had the Mafia.
    Carrie stood up, shaking her head violently. Was she shaking away her own fear? Then her eyes contracted to normal size once more.
    “Ye gods and goddesses,” she murmured, trying on a smile. “I certainly am popular tonight.”
    I started to get up, too.
    “No, Kate,” she said, straightening her spine. “It’s just someone at the front door. In any case, it is my door. You stay here.”
    Before I could argue, she had left the room.
    I snuck into the hallway on tiptoe, holding my breath. I wasn’t going to stay glued to my chair if there was a possibility of danger to Carrie. But I didn’t want her mad at me either. She was mighty formidable for a small woman. In fact, she was mighty formidable for a woman of any size.
    After she had ordered the animals into silence, she opened the door. I couldn’t see her from my spot in the hallway, but I could hear. First there was a rustling and clicking as she unlocked the door, then the creak as she swung it open.
    “Travis,” Carrie said then. Her voice sounded funny, but not afraid funny. It was something else.
    “Got your message on my machine,” came a brusque male voice. “Did someone really murder Slade?”
    Silence. I wondered if Carrie was nodding. I wondered why she’d called Travis.
    “Are you okay?”
    “Of course, I’m okay,” Carrie answered. “There was no need for you to…”
    I scurried back to my kitchen chair, ashamed of my eavesdropping, then took a deep breath to replenish my depleted oxygen.
    A few more breaths later, Carrie came back to the kitchen with Travis in tow.
    “Kate, you remember Travis Utrelli,” she said with a nod my way. Then she turned her back on me to look up at Travis, who towered over her by more than a foot.
    I didn’t blame her for resting her eyes on him rather than me. Travis was looking as handsome as ever despite the scowl that nearly converged his lush black eyebrows over his big brown eyes. I wondered how old he was. He didn’t look more than thirty. His long black hair fell unfettered to his shoulders. His nose was straight, his cheekbones were high and his lips were full. Did his ancestors come from India? South America? Wherever roving gypsy boys came from?
    “Hi, Travis,” I piped up.
    He took the time to meet my eyes over Carrie’s shoulder and nod in greeting.