Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (5 page)

- Five -

“So, you’re a Scorpio,” Wenger said thoughtfully. I cringed, waiting for the verbal blow. “Well, that makes two of us,” he finished.

It took a couple of seconds for his words to sink in. Then I got it. We shared an astrological sign. All right! I straightened my shoulders as much as I could, scrunched up on Justine’s kitchen floor. Then I tried on a tentative smile.

“Maybe that’s why you’re always on the scene when a murder happens,” Wenger added, squinting his heavily lidded eyes in my direction.

I swallowed my smile, feeling it dissolve in the cauldron of acid which had replaced my stomach. Damn. I knew this would happen. I turned to Barbara for help. She shrugged her shoulders, not looking as smug as usual. If there was anything worse than Barbara looking smug, it was Barbara looking worried.

“That’s why I came to this soiree,” I explained to Wenger, trying to keep from rushing my words. Trying to keep my voice slow and calm. “Because my friend here said that all this murder stuff had to do with bad karma or something. I don’t know why I can’t go into a room full of people without someone dying. Do you think I like it? All I want to do is be able to walk around without stumbling over dead bodies. I thought maybe Justine could help me, but—”

I broke off before anyone could interrupt me. My voice was no longer slow, and it certainly wasn’t calm. Actually, I was babbling. And Wenger was leaning forward ever so slightly, taking in everything I’d said.

“A Murder Type,” Kettering announced eagerly, his utterance in capitals as if he’d just discovered a new solar system. Or maybe a new disease.

“Kate isn’t a murder type,” Barbara spoke up from beside me. I was surprised by the strength in her voice. “Jeez-Louise, you guys, you’re oversimplifying these typing systems. None of them predict behavior absolutely.”

“At best, they might indicate an inclination, not a certainty,” Justine threw in, standing a little taller.

I was beginning to feel better. At least I had some friends among the living.

“Like cats,” Linda added. “People say that all Siamese do this and all Persians do that, but it’s not true—”

“Fer Pete’s sake, we’re not cats, Ms. Underwood,” Wenger cut in. “Much as it might seem a sight more appealing than being a policeman on a day like today.”

“Sir, can I finish interrogating?” Kettering whispered for the crowd.

“Whaddaya think, you’re going to force that one to admit her enneagram number?” Wenger demanded, pointing at Artemisia, whose head was tilted to the side now, her mascara-smeared eyes traveling around the ceiling. “Or him to tell you his Myers-Briggs letters?” Now he was pointing at Zarathustra, who glared angrily back at the tip of Wenger’s finger. “These folks have had enough.”

I closed my eyes and let the relief sweep over me. I wasn’t the only one. I could feel bodies relaxing in the sticky heat of the kitchen, even hear the sounds they made as spines stretched, lungs started pumping again, and necks cracked. I licked my dry lips and wiggled myself into a pre-standing position.

“I only have one more question,” Wenger said quietly. “Which of you did it?”

The room went silent as everyone froze. I let my sore bottom touch the cold, hard kitchen floor once more.

“One of you did it—” Wenger began.

“Or one of the two ladies that left,” Kettering contributed.

“Kettering,” Wenger ordered after a long sigh, “go wash that bump on your head.”

Lieutenant Kettering left the room. Within minutes it became obvious why Wenger had dismissed him. He didn’t need Kettering’s help to bully us. He could do just fine on his own.

He accused us all, both individually and jointly, of uncontrollable jealousy, simmering hatred, a multiplicity of reasons for revenge, fear of blackmail, and the feigning of insanity. I wasn’t sure if the last particular lob had been meant for Artemisia or for all of us.

And after that, he got tough. Not that it did him any good. He got about as much out of us as Kettering had with his personality interrogation.

Finally, even Wenger was tired.

“Ah, get out of here,” he boomed, waving his hands at us. “I’m sick to death of this. Give your fingerprints to Yuki and make sure she sees your licenses on the way out. And don’t leave town.”

Everyone who was sitting stood up tentatively. Those who were standing looked longingly at the door.

“Ms. Howe and Ms. Underwood,” the chief amended, “you two stay here. The rest of you, scat.”

We scatted. Even Artemisia.

Nobody had to remind Officer Yuki of her duties. O’Dwyer blocked the door that led to freedom, only allowing each of us passage once Yuki had conscientiously rolled our fingerprints and scrutinized our licenses and other forms of ID. Finally, I joined Barbara outside, and we climbed wearily into her Volkswagen bug.

The car
thunked
as Barbara roared off, the bug’s wheels finally off the sidewalk. I breathed in the Volkswagen’s distinct aroma of burnt rubber, metal, incense, and old food. It smelled great.

“Do you think Officer O’Dwyer has a crush on Officer Yuki?” Barbara asked as she rolled through an intersection, ignoring a stop sign…and the blare of a horn from an oncoming car.

I closed my eyes and grabbed for my seat belt. I’d forgotten the smell of fear.

“What makes you think that?” I replied, on automatic.

“Jeez-Louise, Kate,” Barbara replied. “Weren’t you watching? When the boss isn’t there, it’s like someone pushes the ‘zombie-off button on those two. They get human. And then, O’Dwyer—”

“Wayne,” I yipped. I hadn’t meant to let it slip out, but Barbara probably knew I was worried, anyway.

“I’ll go faster,” she assured me.

“No, that’s all right—”

“He’s okay anyway, Kate,” she said seriously, even as she tromped the accelerator.

And despite the fact that Barbara had led me to another dead body,
and
didn’t have a clue whodunit, I believed her when she said Wayne was okay. I felt my neck muscles loosen a little. As much as was possible anyway with Barbara at the wheel.

“In fact,” Barbara went on, “I’m hungry. Wanna catch an early dinner?”

“Barbara!” I objected, though my salivary glands and rumbling stomach seemed to agree with her suggestion. “I’ve gotta see Wayne.”

“We’ll stop at the Seven-Eleven,” she declared.

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. I figured it would take less time to pick up a tofu burger and apple juice than it would to talk her out of it. So we stopped, stood in line for a few minutes, and then we were on the road again. Now Barbara was driving and eating a red-hot beef burrito at the same time. Not that it really changed her driving skills any. It just didn’t improve them.

I waited until we were on the highway, traveling at a relatively even pace, before I opened my apple juice. I didn’t want to see how far apple juice could splash in a Volkswagen. I had just popped the top when Barbara started in on the murder, the possible suspects, our duty to investigate, and Lieutenant Kettering, all through her third bite of burrito.

I gave in to the inevitable and joined the one-way conversation. It couldn’t make her driving any worse. At least, I hoped not.

“So what was that you were saying about the personality typing?” I asked. It seemed safer than discussing suspects.

“Just that Kettering’s a weenie-brain,” she explained. “He’s taking a lot of really cool, complicated stuff and simplifying it. Listen Kate, he’s looking at everyone’s sun sign and calling himself an astrologer. That’s not enough. You have to look at someone’s whole birth chart to really get anywhere. And his whole bit about enneagrams. Enneagrams just show you a glimpse of a person’s motivations and worldview. There’s no such thing as a
bad
enneagram type. There are healthy and unhealthy manifestations of all nine the enneagram types. They’re just personality types designated by numbers. Every single one is probably capable of murder. The murder would just be for a different reason.”

I took a careful sip of my apple juice as Barbara went on. The sweet, cool liquid tasted wonderful. I hadn’t realized just how dry my mouth was.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” she said, sliding into the next lane effortlessly. An Accord skidded around her, too shocked to honk. Apple juice dribbled down my shirt. “Kettering just got on your case because he was embarrassed about bumping his head. And he’s probably a five.”

“A five!” I objected. “As in enneagram five?” Now I was considering hurling my apple juice all over the Volkswagen just for fun. “As in
my
enneagram type five?”

Barbara laughed as if I’d said something funny, and threw me an affectionate look. “Drink your apple juice,” she ordered. I did. I wanted her to look at the road.

“Five enneagram,” she recited, half-closing her eyes. “The observer. Concerned with knowing things, needs privacy, can find the world invasive.” She took another bite of burrito and continued. “Analytical but intellectually arrogant, cheap, stubborn—”

“Stubborn, whaddaya mean stubborn?” I stopped her. “Are you talking about me? Just what’s wrong with knowing things? And I certainly don’t have an inordinate need for privacy—”

“Kate,” she stopped me. “Have you noticed you work out of your home?”

“Huh?” I said.

“Need for privacy,” she answered. “That’s why fives can get too isolated, even obsessive and riddled by paranoid delusions. They need privacy.”

“Am I obsessive?” I demanded. My neck stiffened as I thought about all the people who’d labeled me obsessive in my lifetime. I wasn’t about to tell Barbara she wasn’t the first. “Am I paranoid? If you stumbled across a body every time you entered a room, you’d get a little paranoid too. Anyway—”

“Actually, Kettering might be a seven,” Barbara interrupted, swerving into the next lane as some inspiration hit her. I just hoped that inspiration was the only thing that was going to hit her.

“A seven!” I objected once the noise had died down behind us. “I thought you just said he was a five.”

“Well, he looks like a five with all those books and everything. But remember how the chief said he was interested in fingerprints before. He may be one of these people who’s always into something new, you know. Fun-loving, spontaneous, undisciplined—”

“Didn’t you say you were a seven?” I remembered. “Fun-loving, spontaneous. How come you get all the good stuff?”

“Good stuff?” she parroted. “Listen, kiddo, sevens are manic, restless, self-destructive—”

“Murderers?” I finished for her. It was mean, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe my privacy had been invaded or something.

“Yeah,” she answered seriously. “A seven could kill in a moment of temporary insanity. Violence isn’t out of the question.”

There was a temporary silence in the Volkswagen bug. I gulped down the last of my apple juice and took a bite of tofu burger as Barbara thought. I was trying to come up with something else to talk about when she finally broke the silence.

“There’re always threes,” she murmured. “Ted Bundy was a three. And eights can be sociopaths—”

“How can you possibly know that Ted Bundy was a three?” I challenged.

“Felix told me,” she answered calmly. “He read it somewhere—”

“And what is Felix?” I couldn’t help asking.

“A three,” she answered.

“But—”

“Kate,” she interrupted before I could even start. “I told you there are healthy and unhealthy versions of each type. Don’t simplify like Kettering.”

Kettering, who was either a five or a seven. I was getting dizzy with all these numbers. I wanted to go home. I wanted some time alone with Wayne, I wanted…privacy?

“Told you,” Barbara chirped.

“I hate it when you do that,” I said.

“I know,” she said back.

“Barbara,” I asked seriously, a mile and a bite of tofu burger down the road, “what
do
you see in Felix?”

If she was offended by the question, Barbara didn’t show it. “Felix really is a good reporter,” she answered. “He works hard and enjoys it. Plus, he’s energetic and confident and fun.”

Not the Felix I knew, I thought, but I kept it to myself. Maybe ripping someone’s head off or tricking them into talking made Felix a good reporter, but I didn’t think it was much fun.

“Felix is different with me,” Barbara told me. “He’s playful and caring.”

“I guess so,” I muttered, trying to imagine a playful, caring pit bull. In my imagination, the pit bull took the Frisbee I threw him and ripped it to shreds.

“But Kettering is right about one thing,” Barbara announced. “We have to get to know who the suspects are to find out who our killer is. Rich McGowan, for instance—”

“We?” I demanded pointedly. I wasn’t about to let her start. It would never stop.

Barbara ignored me.

“And not just Rich McGowan. There’s Gil Nesbit. And Denise Parnell. And Tory Quesada.” She stopped listing names suddenly, and lowered her voice. “You know, kiddo,” she half whispered, “I had a bad feeling about the soiree from the start. My friend Rosie was gonna go too, but she called me and told me the vibes were bad—”