Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (8 page)

“See you later,” I said in a shaky imitation of nonchalance.

“Not if I see you first,” he replied with a braying laugh. Always the joker. Never the straight man.

Craig edged his way out the door around Wayne.

Once Craig was gone, I asked Wayne, “Where were we?” in the most seductive tone I could muster.

But Wayne’s face was still devoid of feeling.

I put my arms around his waist and laid my head against his chest. I sank into his warmth and heartbeat. Slowly his arms came around me and tightened. We stood there breathing in rhythm for a few moments of bliss. Then he broke away.

He held me out at arm’s length and looked into my eyes. “You okay?” he asked. His voice was gravelly. I wanted to rub up against its rough texture.

I nodded my head violently.

“Sarah died,” I said softly.

“I know,” he growled. He pulled me to him again.

“I’ve got to find out who killed her,” I said from inside his arms.

He sighed deep in his chest.

I ignored the sigh. “Want some tea?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer.

“Are you hungry—?”

He broke away again, dropping his arms this time.

“I’m not here for tea, not for crackers,” he rumbled. “I’m here because you’re going to involve yourself in something dangerous.” He put his hands on my shoulders and glared down into my eyes. “Don’t do it,” he said.

I stepped backwards, away from his hands. “Is this what it will be like if we get married?” I shrilled. I could feel my face heating up in anger. “Will you be telling me what I can and can’t do?”

“Kate,” he whispered, a plea appearing for a moment in his eyes. But he sighed and turned away from me before I could respond. “Can’t force you,” he muttered.

I wondered if he meant he couldn’t force me to forget Sarah’s murder, or couldn’t force me to get married. But he walked out the door before I could ask him. I watched miserably as he climbed into his bottle-green Jaguar and drove away.

I sat down at my desk, hoping to quell my misery with work. I removed the telephone and brought out my new necktie design for orthopedic surgeons (navy blue with neat rows of little pink feet). All the design needed was a few more details and I’d send it to the manufacturers.

I worked on it for all of two minutes before the doorbell rang again. Damn! Who was it now? I’d need traffic cops here before long.

I opened the door more cautiously this time. I sighed in relief when I saw who was on my doorstep. It was my friend Barbara Chu. She looked as trim and elegant as ever, even in her khaki electrician’s jumpsuit. Of course the lightning-bolt earrings helped. And the new asymmetrical cut of her black hair contrasted attractively with her smooth Asian features.

She peered at me for an instant, then exploded into the room, talking and hugging me at the same time.

“Are you all right, kiddo?” she asked, anxiety and interest evident in those all too scrutable eyes.

“You saw the paper?” I guessed wearily.

“No, no. Not the paper,” she said, releasing me from her embrace. Her face became even more animated. “I was at work when I had this flash of violence. Then I saw your face. I asked my spirit guide and she said you were safe, but I couldn’t shake it off.” She peered at me again. “You haven’t beat someone up or something?”

“No, but Sarah…” I hesitated.

“Someone died?” she asked, her voice low and spooky.

I nodded, then shivered. Sometimes Barbara’s psychic abilities were too much for me.

“Murdered?” she pressed.

“Are you sure you didn’t see the paper?” I asked, feeling queasy.

She shook her head.

We sat on the couch, and I told her about Sarah’s death in detail. My tale was punctuated by Barbara’s frequent outbursts of “Wow” and “I knew it!” When I was finished, I leaned forward eagerly to hear her appraisal.

“So how’s Wayne?” she asked with a sly smile.

Damn.

“How’d you know I saw Wayne?” I demanded. “More psychic flashes?”

“I passed his car on the road,” she admitted.

I leaned back and laughed. It felt good to have something to laugh about. Then I told her about Wayne’s visit.

“Don’t worry,” she said cheerfully. “You’re soulmates. You’ll always be together.”

Sometimes Barbara’s pearls of wisdom were as aggravating as Sarah’s. It was too bad they hadn’t ever met. They might have enjoyed each other. Maybe they could still meet, I thought suddenly. Barbara was psychic, wasn’t she?

“Do you think you could communicate with Sarah’s spirit?” I asked. I felt foolish the moment the words left my mouth but I figured it was worth a shot.

“Like a seance?” Barbara asked thoughtfully.

I nodded. Even if she wasn’t able to contact Sarah in the ether, it sure would be interesting to see how the other group members responded to such a possibility.

Barbara closed her eyes for a few moments to commune with her spirit guides. When she opened her eyes she said “Yes,” and put her arm around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I said. She was a good friend even if she was a wacko. I squeezed her hand. “I’ll get together what’s left of the study group,” I told her. “We can meet here.”

But before I could arrange any more seance details, Barbara stood up from the couch and looked down at me with serious eyes. Damn. I was beginning to recognize that look. I got ready for the inevitable lecture.

“Kate,” she said softly. “I know you’ll be safe physically, but I’m worried about you emotionally. You need to ground yourself better.” She let her gaze travel around the outline of my body. “Your aura is black around the edges. Are you sure you want to get into this?”

“I have to,” I told her. “I have to know whether Sarah’s death was my fault.”

She reached down and gave me another hug. “It’s not your fault, Kate. But I know you’ll have to find that out for yourself. And you will.”

“Are you into prophecy too, now?” I asked.

“Could be,” she chuckled.

She planted a kiss on my cheek and whizzed out the door with a, “Take care, kiddo,” as fast as she had come in.

Once Barbara had left, I sat on the couch brooding over Sarah. And mulling over all those who had known her. At least Wayne hadn’t known her, I thought. I felt in my back pocket and pulled out his picture. I passed my eyes over it quickly, then walked back into my office and shoved it in a drawer.

By the time I looked at the clock, it was nearly twelve. I had ten minutes left to produce “homemade” chili for Vivian. And then I realized I had never set a date for the seance.

As I clattered an iron skillet onto the stove, yet another realization came to me. Craig had been a member of our study group, too.

My heart hiccuped in my chest. I dumped two cans of chili into the skillet and told myself that he hadn’t come to the group for a long time. But still… I sliced into an onion impatiently. The acrid fumes wafted upwards to sting my eyes.

- Six -

At least Vivian didn’t ring my doorbell. She didn’t bother. She just dragged herself through the back door into the kitchen and sat down heavily in her customary chair. I glanced at her over my shoulder. She didn’t look well.

I turned from the chili I was stirring and examined her more closely. Her usually glowing tan was tinted grey, and there were hollows under her eyes. Were they the result of shock or grief? Or too much alcohol? Then I wondered if I looked as sick as she did. I shook off the thought and asked her how she was doing.

She grunted in reply.

How was I going to get her to talk about Sarah? I considered asking her if she had read the
I.J.
article. No good, I decided. Vivian knew everything about everyone. It would probably insult her dignity to imply that she resorted to such prosaic sources of information as newspapers. But I couldn’t just jump in and ask her about finding Sarah electrocuted in the hot tub. That thought brought up a sudden surge of pity in me. I knew what it was like to find a dead body.

“Are you all right?” I asked her gently.

“Oh, I can handle it,” she replied, her voice wooden. She sat staring at her lap without expression. Her uncharacteristic reticence was beginning to worry me as much as her appearance. Perhaps this wasn’t the time to pump her about Sarah.

“Maybe you should talk to a therapist,” I suggested, taking a seat across from her. “You’ve been through a horrible experience.”

“Naah,” she said. She lifted her head to look at me. The whites of her eyes were marbled with red. “I mean, thanks for sharing and all of that, but I’m really fine. Let’s just eat, okay?”

It was a quiet meal until I tempted Vivian with some purposely inaccurate bits of gossip concerning a prominent city councilman. She stopped mid-bite and corrected me with a touch of her usual spirit. The man was not into cocaine but gin, she assured me, and then she told me just who the real druggies were on the council. This led to a story about the trials and tribulations of one pot-smoking man she cleaned for, whose daughter had become a policewoman, of all things. And so it went until Vivian regained at least a ghost of her former delight in the foibles of the human race. A healthy swig from her J&B bottle didn’t seem to hurt her mood either.

“What’s going on now with Sarah’s demise?” I asked lightly, having primed the pump to my satisfaction.

“I dunno,” she said, her voice gone wooden again. She returned her gaze to her lap.

“Vivian, is that you?” I demanded. “
You
must know the latest scoop. Did her sister ever come to town?”

“Yeah,” she answered, brightening a little. “The sister did show-up. Her name is Ellen. She
claims
she flew in today.” Vivian lifted her head to give me a knowing look. I let out my held breath. Vivian was going to be all right.

“Sarah was supposed to meet her at the airport,” she continued, her voice gaining life and speed. “But she didn’t, so the sister snagged a rent-a-car and drove out to Sarah’s house and, of course, no one was there. She talked to the neighbors, and one of them is one of my ladies I do house for, so she gave Ellen my number. So Ellen calls me like I’m Information Central—”

“You
are
Information Central,” I interrupted affectionately. Vivian shot me a look. “Sorry,” I said. I waved her on. “Go ahead, tell me about Ellen. What’s she like?”

Vivian moistened her mouth with another sip of J&B before continuing. “Ellen was pretty upset about Sarah, but not
real
upset,” she told me. She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head slyly. “If you know what I mean.”

I nodded wisely.

She bent forward to tell me more. “And she wasn’t in a big hurry to call the cops either. She wanted to ask
me
all the questions. Then she asked for Nick Taos’s address. It sounds like she knows she splits the estate with him,” Vivian finished in a low voice.

“You mean Sarah had a will?” I asked eagerly. I had figured Vivian would be a gold mine once she started talking. I was right.

“Yeah,” Vivian answered, with a self-satisfied smile. “Half to the sister and half to Nick.”

“Wow,” I breathed. Then I thought out loud. “Pretty strange for an immortalist to have a will, isn’t it?” Had Sarah known she was going to die? My pulse began to pound audibly.

“I think maybe she made it before she decided she was living forever,” Vivian said thoughtfully. “Anyway, she didn’t leave anything to her mom.”

I looked at Vivian for more.

But she just said, “I don’t know why,” and shook her head before going on. “Her mom’s in an old folks’ home in New Jersey. And her dad’s dead. And the sister, Ellen, she was supposedly the black sheep of the family.”

“Yeah?” I prompted eagerly. A gold mine, all right.

“I’m not sure what Ellen did wrong exactly,” Vivian mused. “But that’s how Sarah talked about her.”

“What about Nick?” I asked.

“He probably needs the money,” Vivian offered. “He hangs out in his house, never goes anywhere. He’s never even been to Sarah’s. She took him over his groceries and stuff.” Her voice softened. “He’ll need someone to take care of him now.”

“I’m going to visit Nick this afternoon,” I announced proudly. “It’s a matter of food. He needs a chocolate fix.”

“I don’t believe it!” Vivian protested. She sat straight up in her chair and stared at me.

“It’s true,” I said, keeping my tone light. “That man will do anything for junk food.”

“Shit,” she muttered. She glared down at her empty plate. It was clear that I had made a tactical error in mentioning my own visit.

“Maybe you should go see him and find out if he needs a little cleaning,” I suggested softly.

“Yeah, maybe.” Her words were noncommittal but she looked up and smiled. “Anyway, you know Sarah’s mutt, Freedom?” she went on, picking up her bowl and carrying it to the sink.

“Sure,” I answered.

“Well, this guy Peter is taking care of him.” She turned on the water.

“Not my Peter?” I asked, gazing at Vivian’s backside in wonder. “You mean Peter Stromberg?”