Free A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) by Jaqueline Girdner Page B

answered slowly. “But Felix, they think it was me.”
    “They won’t be so sure after a few other rumors get passed around,” he assured me.
    I didn’t even get a chance to consider the ethics of that proposal before he was wheedling again. And wheedling some more. I gave in finally. An exclusive it was.
    Then I hung up the phone and waited in the kitchen with all the blinds shut as Wayne cooked. Darkness at noon. And we listened to the mingled voices of the reporters hovering outside. High and low, loud and soft. But all intense. After a while, we heard some shouts and the sounds of a few cars being driven away. Then a few more departures a couple of minutes later. And a few more. Until all the voices had disappeared.
    Half an hour later the doorbell rang. I peeked out the window. No reporters in sight—except for Felix Byrne. He was at the front door with a big grin twitching under his mustache. Felix is not an unattractive man, at least physically. Small and slender with a luxurious mustache and soulful eyes.
    “How’d you get rid of them?” I asked, opening the door.
    “I buzzed in a hot tip to three news rags and two TV stations,” he declared in a radio announcer’s voice. “Gave them the poop that a prominent state senator was up on Mount Tam to meet the aliens that he believed visited him seven years ago. Said I got it from his deep throat assistant who couldn’t handle working for a senator anymore who thinks he’s a secret UFO diplomat.”
    I couldn’t help laughing.
    “And they bought it?” I asked incredulously.
    He nodded, shoving his way in through the doorway.
    I instinctively moved to block him, then remembered that I was the one who’d asked him here.
    “Then I switched phones and told a bunch of other media geeks that Campbell Barnhill had just confessed to the county sheriffs that he killed Sam Skyler…”
    Damn. That wasn’t fair.
    “Then I switched phones again and told a whole different bunch of the boys and girls of the press that Yvonne O’Reilley was busy confessing her little heart out down at the Quiero cop shop—”
    “Stop,” I told him, putting up my hand. I didn’t want to hear any more.
    “Hey!” Felix objected, arms outstretched. “You wanted them off your friggin’ back, right? And don’t get your hemorrhoids in a twist—I spread the rumors around plenty. Now everyone’s a suspect. With the truckload of bull puckey I threw out there, they’ll need a shovel to get through it all. And they won’t have time to be on your case. You know, you’d be deep in doo-doo without a pooper scooper—”
    “I know, I know,” I conceded. I even forced myself to thank him. I’d worry about the ethics later.
    Then Felix raced me to the kitchen to eat the lunch that Wayne had prepared. Wayne cooks when he’s nervous. That day, he’d made seitan-stuffed tomatoes, two kinds of cucumber salad, and three kinds of sandwiches on his homemade sunflower-millet bread. Avocado-tahini, marinated tofu, and pesto eggless “egg-salad.” And there was leftover carob fudge torte for dessert.
    Felix’s eyes lit up when he saw the food. If Wayne could cook, Felix could eat.
    “Speak,” Felix ordered and dug in.
    I spoke. I told Felix what I could remember. In bits and pieces. But I kept my own suspicions to myself. Especially of Diana. Wayne even threw in a word here and there so I could take a few bites in between questions. The pesto-eggless was delicious, even if the dining circumstances were less than desirable.
    After Felix’s third sandwich, I asked the question I’d been wanting to ask. And not wanting to ask.
    “Are the police sure it was murder?”
    He smiled widely.
    “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked and tilted his head coquettishly.
    Wayne rose from the table.
    “Hey, everything’s cool, big guy,” Felix backtracked. “Great food.”
    “Well?” I demanded.
    “Yeah,” Felix said, his voice low with lust. He leaned forward as Wayne sat back down.