Holy Guacamole! by NANCY FAIRBANKS

“That made a bigger impression on him than the committee.”
    “You didn’t!” I started to laugh, thinking of Vladik, who had obviously seen himself as a ladies’ man, having to back off or lose his stereo set. I had to wonder whether she’d taken Smack with her on that visit. What a strange name to give your dog.
    Luz Vallejo looked surprised and then joined me in laughter. “Dumb Russian. He should have known I couldn’t shoot up his hi-fi, much less shoot anything within the city limits unless it was in self-defense.”
    “The police, especially since they’re your former colleagues, might accept your right to protect yourself against an opera attack,” I suggested.
    She grinned. “So they might, but the DA, so I’ve heard, likes opera. So what do you want to know about the crime scene?” she asked.
    “Anything you can tell me. If he simply died from food poisoning, that’s one thing. Wouldn’t that mean those of us who provided food aren’t guilty of a crime? But if someone deliberately killed him while he was sick—well, that’s murder, isn’t it?”
    She stretched out long legs and lit a cigarette. “The best thing about being retired,” she commented, “is that you don’t have to be in places where smoking’s prohibited. Want one?” She offered me the pack.
    “No, thank you,” I replied politely.
    “Hate smokers, right?” She didn’t look as if she cared.
    “The only time I smoked a cigarette, I threw up, and I imagine that you don’t like people throwing up on your property,” I answered evasively. I did, in fact, hate the smell of smoke, but I didn’t want to offend her. She struck me as sort of scary, both she and her dog.
    “Got that right. Gubenko parked his car in front of my place that night, one wheel on the curb, then threw up on my sidewalk and fell into my bushes. Didn’t wake me, but it wasn’t hard to figure out the next morning when Smack and I went out for an early morning walk. Barf all the way from my yard to the Russian’s front door, and on inside, for that matter. The trail took me right to the body.”
    “Where was the body?” I asked.
    “He was lying on his bed, face up, all the signs of suffocation. Want to know what they are?”
    “No, thanks. I’ll take your word for it,” I answered hastily.
    “Thought so,” she replied. “Place smelled like a drunk tank. Vomit everywhere—in the bathroom, bedroom, hall, on him and the bedclothes. Green vomit. Were your canapés green?”
    She was trying to, as my daughter would say, “creep me out.” “White, red, and peach,” I replied. Green was for guacamole, obviously.
    “So maybe you’re in the clear, unless you held the pillow over his face. As sick as he was, I suppose a woman could have held him down till he inhaled in the middle of the next retching episode.”
    I felt a little green myself. “And that’s what you think happened? Someone held a pillow over his face instead of him dying in the—more or less natural course of things? How did they get in his house?”
    “They didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re asking. I checked while I was waiting for the medics and cops to arrive. Either the killer had a key, or the Russian left the door open. Probably the last. It was open when I got there the next morning. If the killer had a key, he’d have been smart to lock up after himself, so it would look like Gubenko died alone. And that’s not what I figure happened. The pillow was on the floor, vomit-side up, the indentation of his face still in it, and he was on his back.”
    “Then why aren’t the police investigating that instead of chasing after us?” I asked.
    “One, what Guevara is doing is the easy way, talking to respectable ladies while he waits for the tox screens to come in. Two, I told him what I figured happened, and he brushed it off because there’s bad blood between us. If I told him there was a guy with a knife behind him, he wouldn’t turn around or run. He’s