Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (17 page)

I nodded. One good thing about psychics. They know when you’re nodding over the phone.

“That’s cool,” she assured me. “I’ll check them out for eee-vil vibrations.”

“Do you think you can spot the murderer?” I asked her.

Her voice turned serious. “I don’t really know,” she said softly. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, Barbara,” I said. “Talk to you later.”

But she stopped me before I could hang up. “Kate,” she said slowly. “I’m getting something weird on you. I don’t know what it means but I see—”

“Fire,” I finished for her.

“Yes,” she said. “What happened?”

“Someone set my log pile on fire.”

“Oh, I see,” she remarked.

I was glad someone saw. I opened my mouth to tell her about my night, when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll let you get the door,” she said and hung up.

I wished she hadn’t when I saw who was at the door. It was Sergeant Feiffer. And he wasn’t smiling as he walked in.

“Jesus, what did you do!” he shouted. Then he slammed the door behind him.

C.C. came loping in to check out the action.

Sic ‘im,
I ordered her silently.

Feiffer took another step forward and brought his head down so that he was glaring directly into my eyes. “What do you know?” he snarled.

C.C. skidded to a stop, turned and walked nonchalantly back to the kitchen. Her mama didn’t raise any foolish kittens.

“I…” I faltered.

“You what?” he asked, his eyes glued to mine.

“I don’t know what I know,” I answered weakly.

“Well, someone thinks you do,” he told me. He straightened his shoulders and spoke in a nearly normal tone. “The fire marshal says it’s arson.”

Then he just stared at me. What did he want from me?

“Do you want to hear the message?” I asked finally.

His eyebrows went up.

“What message?” he asked. Then I saw his eyes narrow. “Did you get a new one?” he demanded.

I led him to the answering machine and stuck in the tape. Then I hit the play button.

“That’s our last warning,” the tape rasped. “Next time it’ll be you.”

Feiffer dropped into my comfy chair and shook his head back and forth. I resisted putting a consoling arm around him. I didn’t want to be misunderstood. But he sure looked like he could use some consolation. He wasn’t the only one.

“What did you find out about the first message?” I asked softly.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head harder. “It must have been a local call. There’s no record of it.” He looked up at me. “We’ve sent it to another lab. They’ll try to filter out the TV show and get some background noise, but…” He threw his hands up despairingly.

“Could you assign someone to guard my house?” I asked in a small trembling voice I didn’t even recognize.

Feiffer rose from the chair and shrugged his shoulders. “I can put in a request, but I can’t promise much.”

He must have sensed my heart sinking. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We just don’t have the people to go around. Maybe we can get someone to drive by every once in a while but—”

“That’s all right,” I told him. No use in his feeling bad.

Suddenly he glared at me. I could see the lecture forming in his eyes. “Ms. Jasper, take my advice. Get out of town for a while—”

The doorbell rang again. Sergeant Feiffer and I both jumped.

It was Felix. He came stomping into the hallway, his eyes full of hurt, his mouth moving furiously under his mustache. “What’s the deal here?” he demanded. “How come you didn’t call—”

Then he saw Sergeant Feiffer. Feiffer glared at Felix. Felix glared back at Feiffer. Reporter versus cop. I didn’t bother to introduce them. It was obvious that they had met each other before.

“You ought to take better care of your friend,” Feiffer snapped at Felix. Felix’s eyes widened. Feiffer glared at both of us for a moment, then strode out the door and down the stairs.

The moment I closed the door Felix started in. “I thought you were my buddy, my
compadre
” he whined. Then he escalated to shouting. “But noooo! Every time something big happens you forget all about me! You tell Barbara but not me! A story like this and all you can think of is—”

The doorbell rang again. Oh boy. Someone else to yell at me?

I opened the door and saw Vivian. Was this her day to clean? I couldn’t even remember what day it was.

Vivian tilted her head toward Felix. “Who’s he?” she demanded brusquely.

“Felix Byrne,” I answered. “Ignore him.”

Felix’s face reddened.

“What’s up?” I asked Vivian. I remembered now. It wasn’t her day.

“I was doing a house down the street,” she explained. “They told me about the fire.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Finally. Someone cared if I was okay. “I’m all right,” I lied. “Thank you for asking.” I shot a pointed look at Felix. He had the grace to look down at his shoes. That was probably as close to an apology as he would consider making.

“What happened?” Vivian asked.

“Arson,” I answered. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

“Why?” Vivian pressed. She stared at me unblinkingly.

I wiggled impatiently. Was she going to tell me I brought it on myself? “To stop me from asking questions about Sarah’s death,” I admitted.

“Are
you going to stop?” Vivian asked in an even voice.

“No, goddammit!” I exploded. Why was everyone on my case?

Vivian stepped back, hurt on her face. I was immediately sorry for shouting.

“I just—” I began.

“That’s fine,” she muttered angrily. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m just the hired help.”

Felix smirked as she turned and left.

“Out!” I shouted at him.

The smirk left his face. “But—” he began.

“I’ve got a lunch date,” I insisted. “I’ll see you later.”

“Kate—”

I centered myself, put my hands on his chest and gave him a light tai chi shove. He stumbled backwards a step. All right! I hadn’t been sure it would actually work.

“Cool, I’m cool,” he assured me, putting up a restraining hand. “But remember, dinner’s on you tonight. Catch you at six.”

As he walked down the stairs I felt a pang of guilt. He was Barbara’s sweetie after all.

“Felix!” I yelled after him. “I’ll tell you everything tonight I promise.”

He turned back to me, a gleam in his eye. His mouth opened.

“Tonight,” I repeated and closed the door quickly.

I trotted into the bathroom to fix my hair and brush my teeth. I was meeting Tony at his restaurant at twelve-thirty. I smiled at the mirror. Tony might be a murderer, but at least he wouldn’t yell at me.

The Elegant Vegetable greeted me tastefully, as always. As I walked into the restaurant, the aroma of herbs and garlic wafted toward me. That was a big improvement on smoke. I breathed in happily and realized I was really hungry. I never had eaten breakfast. Vivaldi played softly in the background. Large watercolors of flowers were hung on the walls, and real ferns, philodendrons and palms grew in abundance. Tony walked up to greet me and gave me a long, warm hug. I sank into the comfort gratefully.

“I’ve made some very special dishes in honor of your visit today,” Tony told me once we came out of the clinch. He held me at arm’s length and looked into my eyes. “In addition to the regular menu we have gingered eggplant salad, cauliflower mousse and tofu bourguignonne. And today’s soup is miso watercress.” He gave me a second, brief hug.

“I’m salivating,” I assured him enthusiastically. But my genuine gustatory anticipation couldn’t stop me from staring at Tony’s face. Why were there dark circles under his round blue eyes? Was he mourning for Sarah? Maybe he just had a late date last night, I told myself. Or did he stay up past his usual bedtime to light my log pile on fire? I lowered my own eyes guiltily.

Tony didn’t seem to notice. He led me to a corner table and whispered to our waitress that he wished to be considered a patron rather than host for the next hour or so. She was dressed in an olive-green sweatshirt over black tights, one of the more conservative outfits in the place. She nodded, bobbing her hot-pink and black-streaked hair, and then slunk off.

“How come you hire these punkers to wait tables?” I asked in a whisper. For the moment I wanted to talk about anything besides murder. Or arson.

“At first I took them on because the poor kids can’t get work anyplace else,” Tony explained gently. “They’re just expressing their feelings, but you wouldn’t believe the discrimination they run into.” He shook his head sadly.

“I can’t imagine why,” I remarked insincerely as I watched the busboy filling my glass. His face was chalk-white. I hoped it was makeup and not natural. He wore a rhinestone nose ring, leather pants and a shirt that had torn shoulders and came down to just above his navel. The strip of hair that divided his skull down the middle was fanned into gold-tipped spikes. Tony didn’t seem to notice the insincerity of my words.

“But then I found they were a drawing card,” he want on placidly. He leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “People who aren’t vegetarians come here just for the enjoyment of watching the kids serve. Isn’t that amazing?”

I smiled. “It sure is,” I agreed honestly.

“But enough business,” Tony said, sitting back in his chair. “What’ll you have to eat? Tofu bourguignonne? Cauliflower mousse?”

“I’m overwhelmed,” I told him. “How about if you order? I’ll have whatever you suggest.” Tony flashed me a sweet smile, then motioned the waitress over and ordered a series of dishes and a bottle of Navarro pinot noir grape juice.

“God, it must be heaven to eat here all the time,” I purred.

“It is sometimes,” Tony agreed seriously. “Though most of the time I’m too busy cooking, or smoothing someone’s feathers, or doing all the—” He broke off with an embarrassed smile. “Enough complaining. Today is special. I’m going to get comfortable and appreciate the food and the company.” Then his face went serious again. “Since Sarah has gone, I’ve come to cherish my remaining friendships more than ever.” He looked so sincere as he spoke. But was he?

“It doesn’t seem possible somehow that Sarah is really gone,” I prompted.

“No,” said Tony, his sorrowful eyes staring out past me. “I’m thirty-four years old and I go to funerals every month. I study the obituary column like an old man. So many of my friends have died. I should be used to it.”

AIDS, I thought. He’s talking about AIDS. My stomach spasmed. I knew he did hospice work, but he rarely talked about it. I reached out to touch his hand. He was such a good man.

“
You’re
all right, aren’t you?” I asked, suddenly worried by his mood.

He brought his eyes back to mine and smiled weakly. I could tell it was an effort. “So far, so good,” he said, squeezing my outstretched hand. Then he leaned forward. “What I don’t understand is Sarah dying,” he whispered. “She wasn’t sick. And she was… she was…”

“Immortal,” I finished for him.

“Yes…” he agreed slowly. “I suppose I actually believed that.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand how it could have happened.” He stared at me intently. What answers did he want from me?

“You mean how she was murdered?” I asked, retrieving my hand.

“Murdered!” Tony yelped. “She wasn’t murdered, was she?” His face paled. Was it possible that he hadn’t realized? He certainly looked shocked and horrified.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” I said hurriedly. “I really don’t know if she was murdered. I just—”

Our waitress arrived with our salads before I could say anything else foolish. I studied Tony’s face as she served us. He stared down at the table with unseeing eyes as she set his salad in front of him. He certainly looked like he was a man in shock.

I decided to concentrate on my gingered eggplant. I dug in and brought a bite to my lips.

“Murder?” Tony repeated in a faraway voice. “I read the paper, but I never really believed…”

Damn. I laid my fork back down and reached for Tony’s hand again. I shouldn’t have done this to him. “Tony,” I scolded gently, “you’re right about enjoying ourselves. Now eat. Or I’ll feel bad.” He continued to stare at his plate in a daze until his natural graciousness reasserted itself.

“Of course,” he murmured. I let go of his hand and he speared a piece of eggplant. I didn’t know if he meant “of course we should eat,” or “of course she was murdered.” I let it go.

We ate in uneasy silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say, except to ask him where he was at two o’clock this morning. So I praised the eggplant salad. Tony brightened a little. I turned up the heat as the rest of the dishes came. I sighed over the cauliflower mousse made with soy milk instead of cream, and moaned unashamedly over the tofu bourguignonne and clove-spiced pilau. Very few men can resist loudly orgasmic recognition of their skills. Tony was no exception. By the end of the meal he was smiling again, albeit wanly.