Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (13 page)

“Sarah did that kind of thing, all right,” I whispered. I didn’t know what else to say. Myra had been badly hurt by Sarah’s betrayal.

I tried to think of a tactful way to ask Myra what had happened to Sarah’s ten per cent upon her death. But she was talking again, in a soft murmur now.

“So after years of therapy, I had finally decided I’d talk to her, have it out with her,” she sighed. She looked at the surface of her desk as if for answers. “It wasn’t just her. It was the pattern in my life.” She raised her empty hands in the air. “I never was able to tell my father what I felt because he died before I made up my mind. And I don’t even know where my ex-husbands are. So I was going to talk to Sarah. And now she’s dead.” Myra shook her head slowly and sadly.

I shook my head with her. I was all out of words. My stomach was churning with her turmoil. And a nasty thought kept intruding into my mind. How therapeutic might it have been for Myra to murder Sarah?

Myra stood up abruptly. Had she realized the content of my thoughts? Guiltily, I jumped out of my own chair. She offered me her hand. It was even colder and wetter than before. I murmured my thanks for her help, all the while restraining myself from bolting from her office. I wanted out! We exchanged a few more polite words and I left with carefully measured steps.

When I got to my Toyota, I sat in the front seat trying to shake off the interview. I felt grimy, splattered with her feelings. Her anger was frightening. And her pain and sense of betrayal had been all too palpable. Had she been the one to leave the message on my answering machine? Suddenly cold, I rubbed my hands together for warmth. I wanted a long, hot shower. I looked at my watch. I didn’t have the time.

I had ten minutes to get to my tai chi class. And I needed that class, especially the stillness of mind it could bring. The martial arts aspect seemed pretty appealing too. And if I died any time soon, at least my spine would be straight and my thighs relatively trim.

I drove to the class with a chattering mind. Was Myra’s the character of a murderer that I had been seeking? The requisite hatred was certainly there. I could even smell it in the acrid odor of her sweat when she spoke of Sarah. She had seemed sincere about wanting to have it out with Sarah. On the other hand, I had only her word that she hadn’t already had it out… by murdering Sarah. But if that were true, why would she have agreed to speak to me and reveal her motivation?

I parked my car around the corner from the tai chi classroom as my mind continued to spiral outward. As owner of Word Inc., Myra must have had some understanding of computers in general. But did she have access to
Sarah’s
computer? To Sarah’s house and robot? I shook my head. How could she?

I found myself wanting Myra to be the one, wanting anyone who wasn’t my friend to be the one. But she just didn’t fit. It was like seeing the perfect sweater in the ideal color, style and price range, but in a size too small. I wanted to squeeze Myra into the role of murderer. But I just couldn’t.

As I walked into the classroom filled with women and men wearing baggy pants and peaceful expressions, I could only think of Myra. And Sarah. What about Sarah’s ten per cent interest? Would Sarah’s heirs sell that interest to Myra now? I put on my Chinese slippers quickly. Was that what Myra wanted? Control? But again, why had she told me about Sarah’s share in the business if that was her motive?

With an abrupt return to the here and now, I realized that the whole tai chi class was waiting for me. Everyone was positioned to start the form, except for a few students who were turned and staring at me. Their expressions were no longer peaceful. They were aggravated. I nodded apologetically and hurried to take a place in the back row, trying to file Myra and murder in a back drawer of my mind.

The room was silent as fourteen bodies began the tai chi form. I let Myra and the murder go. Sinking the weight down through my torso, through my legs, and into the ground, I began the slow dance, enjoying the sensation of shared purpose as we all took the first steps in synchronization. Then the shift, turn, press and release. I was lulled into inner quiet.

But when I brought my knee up for the first kick, my mind blasted me.

My visit to Nick. His room of sculptures. Suddenly it was clear. I knew.

“Kate!” hissed someone behind me.

My knee was still in the air. Everyone else had finished their kicks and turned toward the opposite wall. Damn. I turned to catch up with the others, but my overflowing mind turned with me.

I knew what Nick’s sculptures were. How could I have missed it?

As I bent down for the low punch I couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. I could hear it reverberate in the silence like blasphemy in church. I kept my eyes low, avoiding the instructor’s. But I knew.

Nick’s sculptures were representations of female genitalia.

I drew my body up and followed the others in the turns and shifts and punches and kicks. But my mind stayed with Nick’s sculptures. How Sarah must have loved Nick’s labial “homage.” And it had taken me all afternoon to figure it out. At least I had solved one mystery.

I apologized to the tai chi instructor after class. I told her I had been struck by a flash of insight during the form. She nodded gravely. I didn’t tell her what the insight was. I just left.

Once I got home I checked my answering machine for death threats. There weren’t any. Then I called Barbara. I needed a sanity check. But as I sat down in my comfy chair, C.C. burst into the room yowling. She jumped into my lap and stared unblinkingly into my eyes with an expression of feline concern. I gave her a reassuring pat, wondering if she knew something I didn’t. She settled down into my lap. I dialed Barbara’s number as C.C. began clawing. I stuck a notebook between her claws and my thighs. C.C. shot off my lap with an outraged yowl, cheated once more of a good dig.

I told Barbara about my conversations with Vivian, Janice Jackson, Donald Simpson and Myra. I didn’t tell her about the death threat. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t even want to think about it. Then I topped off the recap by telling her about Nick’s sculptures.

“What a kick!” she shrieked. Her laughter came pouring out of the telephone receiver.

I was glad to hear it. I hadn’t been able to decide if there was something creepy, even threatening about Nick’s sculptural obsession, or if it was just funny. I let my tense muscles relax. But not for long.

“You know, kiddo,” Barbara began, her voice serious. “If this is actually murder, the killer isn’t going to be amused by your snooping.” She paused. My neck muscles tightened. This isn’t something you want to hear from a psychic. She went on. “I’m surprised this guy hasn’t attacked you, or at least threatened you,” she said.

Damn.

By the time I hung up on Barbara I had less than an hour left to work before meeting Peter for dinner. The eternal pile of Jest Gifts paperwork on my desk radiated an uncharacteristic appeal that day. I dove into it gratefully, trying to forget Barbara’s warning. Trying to forget that someone had threatened my life. But I had only worked a few minutes when the doorbell rang.

As I stood up I felt a pang of fear and suddenly wished I had a chain lock for the door. I peered out my office window and saw a tall figure lurking on my doorstep.

It was Wayne. I rushed to the door to let him in. But he made no move to enter when I opened it. I reached out and grabbed his hand. It was stiff and unresponsive. If it hadn’t been warm, I would have sworn it was plastic. I dropped his hand and looked up under his eyebrows. There was nothing in his eyes. They were blank, chilling, a bodyguard’s eyes.

“Are you still investigating?” he asked. His words were exact, his deep voice curt.

I shrugged.

“Are you all right?” he inquired. There was still no feeling in his eyes or his voice.

I nodded.

“Wayne—” I began.

He turned his back on me and walked down the stairs carefully, slowly. No conversation. No hug. Nothing.

Then there was a flash of black and white at the door. C.C. shot down the stairs, running after him.

I closed the door slowly and went back to my desk. I picked up my pen and continued work on a payroll tax deposit form. But something was wrong with it. The writing wavered. I looked again. My tears had blotched the ink.

The doorbell rang once more. This time I didn’t even bother to look out the window. I just didn’t care anymore.

“Who is it?” I shouted from my desk.

“Felix!” came the reply. I didn’t think my heart could sink any further, but it did. Felix Byrne was at my door.

Felix was Barbara’s boyfriend and, worse, a reporter. Where murder was involved, he was a pit bull of an interrogator. Once he had you by the throat he never let go. I wasn’t up to being questioned by Felix. I put my head down on my desk and covered it with my hands, hoping that if I was very quiet he would go away.

“Kate!” he shouted and pounded on the door. He wasn’t going away.

I left the sanctuary of my paperwork and opened the door cautiously. Felix was an attractive man, small and slender with a luxurious mustache reminiscent of Mark Twain’s. His dark, soulful eyes were what usually hooked the women. But they didn’t look soulful right now. They were narrowed with anger.

“Why didn’t you call me?!” he bellowed. What a lot of voice for such a small man.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

He ignored my greeting. “You find another body, and I read about it in that… that scuzzbag trade rag! Not my paper, nooooo!” He drew out the word so long I thought he’d run out of air. No such luck. He clamored on. “I’m your friend, and you treat me like a piece of slime! I’m a reporter—”

“Sarah was my friend too, Felix!” I cut him off with my own shout. It felt good. I was almost glad to have someone to yell at. His eyes widened. “How do you think I feel?” I finished in a softer tone.

He was silent for a moment. Then he put his hand on my shoulder comfortingly. He smiled gently. “How
do
you feel?” he asked.

I could almost see the tape recorder switch on in his brain. This was the interview. I didn’t answer his question. I stuck my tongue out at him instead. It seemed to be the safest strategy. With my tongue out of my mouth, I couldn’t use it to speak.

“Come on, Kate,” he cooed.

It was useless to try to avoid him. I knew he’d alternate cooing and bellowing and anything else he could think of until I talked. I retracted my tongue.

“All right,” I said gracelessly. “I’ll give you half an hour. Then you’ve got to go. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he said, pushing past me into the kitchen.

I told Felix about Sarah, her life, her friends and her death, over the tea that he made. Felix was a great one for making tea. And when he wasn’t ranting, he was a good listener. He had a way of fixing his round eyes on me that made me feel he was intent on my every word. His nods of assent punctuated the unfolding of my murder theory in all the right places.

“If she was murdered, it’ll be a nut-buster of a story,” he said finally, pushing away his empty teacup. “Not only the method but her. What a wacko! I wish I could have met her.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be so sure you’d have liked her,” I told him. “Sarah could be pretty cruel. And she didn’t even know she was being cruel half the time. She was just insensitive and selfish and—” I broke off. Was this any way to talk about a dead friend? To a reporter? “Sarah had her good qualities,” I corrected myself. Then I tried to think of some of those good qualities. “She was great for personal transformation and prosperity consciousness and all of that…” I faltered.

“Prosperity consciousness,” snorted Felix. “What bull-pucky! Do you really believe that prosperity consciousness had anything to do with her success?” He shook his head pityingly at me.

“I don’t know whether it actually works,” I said defensively. “But I figure a little creative visualization can’t hurt anything. And sometimes I…” Felix’s amused stare stopped me before I admitted any other New Age practices.

“What do you do?” he smirked. “Imagine lawyers thinking, ‘Gee, I’d sure like a case of shark ties—’ “

“All right, all right.” I gave in. “Maybe it’s all silly. But Sarah believed it! She used to drive people crazy with this stuff. If anyone complained about their life she’d just tell them ‘you create your own reality.’ Or she’d say, ‘There is abundance in the universe available to you.’ “ I sighed. “She never bothered to explain how to get a piece of that abundance, of course.”

“Jeez, I hate those kind of bliss-ninnies,” Felix said. “I live in mellow, friggin’ Marin. I hear it all the time.” He bent forward and hissed. “Even Barbara does it to me! I work my nuts off, and I sure don’t ‘have it all.’ Marin may be mellow, but it’s expensive. All I can afford is my rat-cage of an apartment and my old Chevy.” I nodded. I’d seen them both. “But if I complain, Barbara says, ‘Just open your mind to receive, Felix.’ I could kill her. It’s all a crock if you ask me.”

I chuckled. Felix was so upset he had forgotten to interrogate me. He sat there glaring at his empty teacup.

“Prosperity consciousness just means that when you’re rich you get to gloat,” he finished in a sullen tone. But then he jerked up his head and smiled. “I wonder if that’s what got Sarah killed?” he said slowly. He looked into my eyes. “What do you think?”