Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (6 page)

“Tell him it’s important,” I said in a tone which I hoped conveyed fury just held in check. “Tell him I have to talk to him
now.
”

“Please hold,” the voice said and the orchestra filled my ear once more.

“Dammit, Kate, I’m busy,” Peter announced, mercifully cutting short a violin-heavy rendition of “Maria.”

“Listen, Peter,” I said. “You called
me
last night, remember?” Now that I had him on the line I wasn’t sure how to tell him about Sarah. And I did want to know why he had called me.

“Oh, right. I called you,” he said with some contrition. Then his tone went shrill. “It’s about Sarah.” My stomach constricted. Did he know? “She’s not following the rules of the group,” he complained. “Our group is a serious discussion group, not some latter-day fraternity party. These practical jokes have got to stop. Someone has to talk to her and—”

“Peter,” I interrupted softly.

“What?” he snapped.

“Sarah’s dead,” I said.

There was silence at the other end of the line, and finally, “I don’t believe it.”

“Then go get a copy of the afternoon
I.J.
!”

“But she can’t be dead, she’s… she’s immortal,” he sputtered.

“Oh, Peter,” I whispered softly, hearing Sarah’s “youthing” speech in my mind. I shook off the reverie and continued, rattling off facts quickly to get them over with. “Sarah is dead. I saw them bring her out in a body bag. And I know what killed her. One of her robots crawled in her hot tub and electrocuted her.”

There was a long silence before Peter replied.

“Is this a joke?” he asked, his voice tremulous. “Because, if it is, you can tell Sarah I don’t think it’s funny! This is even more tasteless than the robot in the bathroom. I didn’t think you would stoop to being a party to Sarah’s jokes—”

“It’s not a joke, Peter,” I said. Something in my tone must have gotten through to him. He didn’t reply. “The
I.J.
wouldn’t print a joke like this, would they?” I pressed.

I heard him tell someone to go out and find a copy of the newspaper. Then he was back to me.

“What exactly did you mean when you said a robot crawled in the tub with her?” he asked, his voice deeper and steadier now.

“A robot was found in the hot tub, still plugged into the outlet,” I told him. “They think someone programmed it to electrocute Sarah.”

“Good God, do you mean she was murdered?” Peter asked in a whisper.

“I think so,” I answered. “I mean, can you imagine Sarah committing suicide?”

“No.”

“And she was a competent programmer,” I pressed on. “So I don’t think it was an accident.”

“No, not an accident,” Peter answered thoughtfully. “Unless… unless it was an unfortunate joke that backfired.” His voice picked up speed. “Even then, it would have to be programmed exactly to do what it did. But, good God, we can’t be talking about murder!”

“Why not?” I asked. “You have criminal clients. People do kill each other sometimes.”

“But not people like Sarah,” Peter insisted. “People like us! Dammit, I can’t believe this!” He was shouting now.

“Listen,” I said softly, soothingly. “I need to talk to you about this thing in person. When can you see me?”

“I, I don’t know…” Peter’s voice wavered. “I’ve got a heavy schedule for the next week. I still can’t believe…”

“Are you okay?” I asked, belatedly remembering my own shock and recognizing the symptoms in Peter.

“Of course I am.” He drew a breath and steadied his voice. “Next Thursday for lunch.”

“Next Thursday?” I repeated incredulously. Sarah was dead and he was putting me off for a week! “No, tonight,” I insisted. “We can talk over dinner.”

“But I have work to do,” he whined, like a child who knows that punishment is inevitable but still tries to avoid it.

“I have work to do, too,” I snapped. Then I softened my tone. “Come talk to me, Peter,” I cajoled.

He sighed dramatically. “Okay, tonight,” he said, giving in. “Seven-thirty at the Safari Cafe.”

“All right, I’ll be there,” I said. “And Peter, I know it’s weird,” I added. “I’m shook up, too. That’s why we need to talk.”

“I can’t believe it,” he repeated and hung up.

I sat in my easy chair feeling queasy after he hung up. Was my queasiness due to being the bearer of bad news? Or something else? Unbidden, more questions forced their way into my mind. How would my conversation with Peter have gone if I had been speaking to a murderer? Would it have been any different? I felt my skin tighten. Could Peter act that well? All good trial attorneys have to be actors, I answered myself.

The sound of wheels crunching the gravel in my driveway startled me back into the present. Through the window I could see Jerry Gold’s van pulling up with its gold-on-green legend: gold’s gardening. A little visual pun, he had explained to me once.

It was not his day to do my yard. Was he here to talk me into paying for additional unnecessary work? Sarah had once told me that all those extra trim jobs, pest sprays and fertilizations were not necessary for my garden but essential for Jerry’s cash flow. She had been amused at my gullibility. He hadn’t conned her into any extra work.

He got out of his van, a squat, leathery man who looked like one of his own gardening gloves. He stared at the house but didn’t move toward the front door. It occurred to me that he might be here to talk about Sarah. But why was he hesitating?

The phone rang. I turned away from the window to answer it. It was Tony. Sweet, kind Tony. He had read the
Marin Independent Journal
article. As he spoke, I could hear the sound of Jerry’s van backing out of my driveway.

Tony said we needed to “get in touch with our feelings” about Sarah. I wondered, would Tony and I better digest the indigestible news by “getting in touch with our feelings?” Did talking about Sarah’s death help to make it real, or help distance it?

“Her death is really troubling to me,” Tony said with typical understatement, his quiet voice sounding sincerely troubled. Uneasily, I remembered all those
National Enquirer
murderers of whom the neighbors always say, “he was such a nice man,” after the fact.

We agreed to meet at The Elegant Vegetable for lunch the next day. At least I’d get a good meal.

My next move had to be a call to Nick Taos. I was looking up his number in the phone book when I heard another car crunch the driveway gravel.

I went to the window and peered out. A white Volvo was parked under my apple tree. Linda Zatara’s white Volvo. My heart began to beat erratically. I had almost forgotten the Volvo’s near crash into my Toyota this morning. Here, on my street. And here was Linda again. I told my heart to settle down as I watched her get out of her car, look to both sides and climb the stairs to my front door.

I was at my door before she pushed the bell. What did she want from me? Her face was as expressionless as usual when I opened up. She surveyed me with cool grey eyes, as if from a distance.

“Sarah,” she whispered.

I moved from my position blocking the doorway and motioned her into the living room. She walked slowly past the pinball machines to sit on the couch.

“Did you read about it in the
I.J.
?” I asked, flopping down into one of the swinging chairs.

She nodded.

“God,” I said, shaking my head. “It had to be murder. But who would murder Sarah? She called me the other night—”

I saw a flicker in the grey eyes. I stopped mid-babble.

“She called you,” Linda prompted.

“Nothing,” I said uneasily. “It was nothing.” I didn’t like the grey ice in her eyes any more than usual. I shivered, feeling physically chilled by her coolness. Why was she here?

I rubbed my hands together to combat the cold. “Were you coming to see me earlier?” I asked.

She nodded.

“About Sarah,” I prompted.

She nodded again. Damn. How could I get her to talk? An inner voice asked me if I really wanted to get her to talk. What if—

“Can I get you some tea?” I asked, cutting off the voice.

She shook her head.

“Water?” I offered desperately.

She nodded.

Linda followed me into the kitchen. The sun shone into the room, bouncing cheerfully off the cream-colored walls. But I felt trapped by Linda’s dark, silent presence.

Then C.C. came skidding around the corner into the kitchen as if summoned. The atmosphere seemed to lighten. C.C. issued an interrogatory yowl for food. I told her it wasn’t lunch time yet. She dropped onto the floor and began industriously licking between her back legs. I chuckled and glanced at Linda to share a smile. Linda stared back without a change in expression. Not a cat person, I remembered, stiffening. Not a human person either.

I walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Calistoga water. Then I turned. Linda was right behind me. I jumped. I hadn’t heard her following on my heels.

“What did Sarah talk to you about?” she asked, pushing her face close to mine. Up close her grey eyes didn’t seem totally lifeless. There was a pinpoint of light in her pupils, like a light at the end of a long tunnel.

I was trembling as I handed her the Calistoga. I stepped sideways and around her to sit at the kitchen table, where I nervously straightened papers and books. Then I took some deep breaths. The woman wasn’t going to attack me in my own home, I chided myself. She sat down across from me.

“What did Sarah say?” she repeated in a monotone.

“Nothing much,” my voice squeaked. I took another breath to get my voice under control. “Where did you meet Sarah?” I asked.

“A group,” she answered. This was progress. A two-word reply. But before I could congratulate myself, she threw another question at me. “Do you know Tony’s secret?” she asked.

Tony’s secret. Damn. Another little mystery I had managed to forget. I shook my head.

“Do you know who left the death threat on Sarah’s answering machine?” Linda pressed.

I shook my head again, wondering if I was looking at the person who had. My mouth felt very dry. Why had Linda been so quick to label the message a “death threat”?

“Why do you want to know?” I demanded.

Linda smiled a rare smile, her lips drawing back tightly from sharp, gleaming white teeth. She made no reply.

“I don’t know anything,” I said, suddenly tired of this game. “She’s dead, murdered! I don’t know who did it. It could have been any one of us who had access to her computer. I saw them take her away—”

I shut my mouth and clamped my lips together. I was babbling again. Was that what Linda wanted?

I stood up. I wanted her out of my house. I centered myself in a tai chi posture. “I have to get back to work,” I told her firmly.

Linda shrugged and left. It was only after she was gone that I thought of all the questions I could have asked her. Should have asked her. I sighed. She probably would have avoided them anyway. Especially the important questions. Had she murdered Sarah Quinn? And if so, why? I didn’t have a clue.

I did a little more deep breathing, then resumed my search for Nick Taos’s number in the Marin County phone book. I hadn’t really expected to find him listed, but there was his name and number at the beginning of the T’s in black and white. I was surprised. I hadn’t thought recluses had telephones, much less listed phone numbers. I was further surprised when he answered my call. His “Hello” was high-pitched and loud.

“Nick, my name is Kate Jasper,” I began.

“Oh, you’re the one in the group who got a divorce and doesn’t want to get married again,” he bawled in my ear. If this was his idea of social skill, it was no wonder Sarah had kept him locked away.

“Yeah, well, anyway,” I said impatiently. “Do you know about Sarah?”

“Uh-huh, the police have been here,” he said loudly enough that I had to hold the telephone receiver away from my ear. Was he deaf? No, he had heard my question. I opened my mouth to ask another, but he cut me off before I could speak.

“What will I do?” he wailed. “Sarah takes care of me! She takes care of everything! She gets my groceries! She buys my clothes! She’s the only one who knows how to take care of me! And she’s gone!” I held the phone further away from my ear. “What am I gonna do? I haven’t been to a grocery store in years! She kept saying we’d go together one day! Oh God, whatamIgonnado?” he bellowed. He was clearly not a verbal recluse.

“How old are you?” I asked, truly curious.

The question stopped his wailing. “I’m twenty-eight,” he mumbled. Then his voice got loud again, and defiant. “I’m an artist, you know. Sarah says I’m a genius. She moved me out from my parents’ to this house eight years ago so I could work in seclusion.”

“Do you need me to bring anything over?” I asked slyly.

“Would you really bring some stuff over?” he cried.

“How about this afternoon?” I pressed. The fish had taken the bait. Now all I had to do was reel him in.

“Oh, this afternoon’d be great,” he yelled. I pulled the phone away from my ear again. “I need hamburger and Mallomars and root beer and lots of stuff,” he told me.