Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (9 page)

- Nine -

I was pretty sure the letter wasn’t an advertisement. But I was afraid it might have been a bill…for a debt I hadn’t realized I’d incurred.

But what debt? I rubbed my arms as I thought. It felt too cold in the room now. “YOU HAVE ONE MAN, WHY DO YOU NEED ANOTHER?” That didn’t sound like a friendly inquiry, especially in bold print.

I tried to connect the question to Silk’s death, but I couldn’t. As far as I knew, Gil Nesbit, Rich McGowan, and Zarathustra Howe had been the only males at the fatal gathering. And I was fairly sure none of these guys had any interest in me. Why would they? But then, who—

I called Barbara on her car phone, the one I teased her about needing, being a psychic.

“Hey, Kate,” she answered. I could hear the sound of cars honking faintly in the background. Barbara was dangerous enough driving without a car phone. Was I adding to the danger by calling her?

“You know I can drive and talk at the same time,” she informed me. “What’s up?”

I felt smug with the realization that there was at least one thing she didn’t know about without my telling her first.

So I told her about the letter and the message in bold print.

“Craig,” she intoned in her voice-of-prophecy persona.

“You mean this hate mail is from Craig’s girlfriend?” I demanded, wishing I’d listened more closely to him the other night. Hadn’t he just broken up with Bonnie? I knew Bonnie, though not well. She worked at a folk art gallery in Hutton.

“I don’t know if it’s from his girlfriend, but I’ll bet it has something to do with Craig,” Barbara assured me, her voice back to normal.

Some assurance. Some psychic.

“Barbara, how about a little more specificity—”

“Kate?” I heard whispered from behind me. I spun around, my heart thumping louder than the whisper.

And saw Wayne. I let out a long breath. It was only Wayne, Wayne peering down at me, still dressed in his p.j.’s, his eyes confused.

“Thought you came in,” he murmured.

Translated: He thought I’d come in without bothering to check on him where he lay sick in our bedroom.

It might have been a mistranslation, but still. I took the letter in my hand and laid it face down on my desk as I said goodbye to Barbara.

“Hungry?” Wayne murmured once I’d hung up, padding his way unsteadily toward the kitchen. And then I realized I was. Somehow, lunchtime had come and gone. That somehow being Barbara, of course. It was nearer to dinner than lunch now.

But Wayne was too weak to cook. Uh-oh. It was my turn again.

“Sit down, sweetie,” I told him as he leaned on the kitchen counter. He looked like he’d rather be leaning on the kitchen floor.

“But—”

“You can’t cook,” I insisted and helped him to a chair.

And that was how I discovered his recipe for sweet bread spread, a recipe I’d been asking him about ever since he first made it for me. And never received an answer.

“Blender,” he ordered, defeated. He seemed to collapse into the chair. “Silken tofu, preserves, maple syrup, lemon juice, vanilla—”

“Wait a minute,” I stopped him, palm up. I’d gotten as far as pulling out the blender and opening the pantry door.

“Just one more ingredient,” he offered, his shy smile tantalizing. I only wished he had the energy for cooking, in more ways than one.

“What?” I whispered huskily.

“Peanut butter,” he told me.

I threw my arms around his neck. “You trust me!” I exclaimed.

“Consider it a wedding present,” he answered, his brows lowering. I leaned down and saw the smile still tugging at his mouth. I gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek, knowing any more would make cooking impossible.

Even at that, it wasn’t easy. I’m not a cook at heart, not even a blender-master. It took me a lot longer to make the bread spread than it did for Wayne to list its ingredients. But once it was done, it tasted as good as always, smeared thickly on whole-grained bread.

Wayne curled his nose a little, but nibbled at his bread and spread as I gulped mine down. That’s when I remembered that he’d originally made this recipe for me, not for himself. Wayne was not a vegetarian. And he objected to tofu under ordinary circumstances, no matter how well disguised. Even sick, the man was still cooking for me. This time, I couldn’t resist a little more than a sisterly kiss. Yum. A little something we both could enjoy.

“I’ll cook something for
you
next time,” I promised in a whisper a few minutes later.

“More of the kissing, please, ma’am,” he begged in the manner of Oliver Twist. I never could resist begging. Our lips were numb by the time we unhooked them.

Wayne didn’t curl his nose when he took his next bite of bread and spread. He just grinned inanely. I’m pretty sure he was imitating me.

But he was really eating. Not to mention drinking apple juice by the quart. He was getting well. It was good to have him back.

We sat side by side at the table, leaning into each other and talking, talking about everything, as the late afternoon sun floated across the kitchen, lazily marking time. Wayne told me he’d been thinking about spending more hours writing and less hours working. I controlled the urge to jump up and down and cheer. Then we talked a little about weddings. Maybe Wayne wanted to jump up and cheer then too, but fortunately he was still too weak. We even talked about poetry. And science fiction. About everything. Everything except murder and the menacing letter that lay face down on my desk in the next room.

Then I put him to bed and did paperwork late into the night.

Tuesday morning, the letter was still on my desk, and its message was still written in bold, block print. I stared at the print. Bonnie, it had to be Bonnie. I was pretty sure he’d said he’d broken up with her. Well, maybe I couldn’t solve Silk’s murder, but there was nothing to stop me from talking to Craig’s ex-girlfriend.

I peeked in the bedroom door to make sure there was
really
nothing to stop me. There wasn’t. Wayne was snoring gently and peacefully. I pulled my shoulders back and practiced scowling. Then I stalked down the stairs and revved my engine. Righteous anger takes a lot of revving.

I was fully revved by the time I’d parked across from Folk Artisans R Us in downtown Hutton. Actually, the gallery that Bonnie worked for had a much longer and more tasteful name than the one I’d given it, a name that managed to convey the uniqueness and social importance of folk art from Asia, Africa, and South America, only skipping a few snooty continents that it had deemed undeserving of mention.

I slunk in casually, stopping to pat a woven basket and a goddess gourd as I planned my interrogation.

Bonnie strode up to me, a smile on her porcelain face, her auburn hair streaming behind her. Had she recognized me yet?

“Kate,” she greeted me pleasantly.

Casual, I reminded myself.

“It’s been ages,” she went on. “It’s so good to see you. Just because Craig—”

“Hah!” I exploded. Oops. That wasn’t as casual as I’d planned.

Bonnie’s green eyes flickered in her pale face. Was that an admission of guilt? Or a sign of confusion?

“Did you send me the letter?” I demanded, casualness forgotten.

“The letter?” she said blankly, tilting her head.

It was confusion all right. And hurt. I could see the hurt in her body language now. As well as in her eyes. And no wonder. How many people come into your store to yell at you for letters you didn’t write?

“So, Bonnie,” I twittered. “How are things?”

“Huh?” she murmured, still flailing.

Eventually, I bought the goddess gourd. Barbara would love it.

It wasn’t until I was riding home that I realized that if Bonnie hadn’t sent me the letter, then it had to be someone else. And it wasn’t until I was walking into my own house that I realized that presentation was everything. I would give Barbara her goddess gourd by bonking her on the head with it. Craig indeed!

But by the time I looked in on Wayne and ate one of the burritos I’d picked up on the way home, I was lost in the pleasure of gag-gift designing and had forgotten Barbara, head-bonking, menacing letters, and murder as I sketched the new dental floss earrings I’d thought up for dental hygienists. I was tired of the Internet. And dental floss brought out the artist in me. I ran my pencil blissfully along a fresh piece of paper, imagining colors. This was why I was in gag gifts. This was—

The doorbell rang and my pencil slid across the paper, leaving unauthorized tracks.

I stomped to the door, ready to yell. I should have had my goddess gourd in my hand.

Because it was, of course, Barbara Chu who’d rung my doorbell, smiling as serenely as ever.

“I just called Tory Quesada,” she told me.

“So,” I replied sullenly, crossing my arms. I wasn’t about to smile.

“I never said exactly who it was that sent you the letter,” Barbara offered. “I just said it had to do with Craig.”

I went back to my desk and got the goddess gourd.

Barbara met me halfway back to the door, her arms wide open. It’s harder to hit someone who has their arms wide open.

“Oh, Kate,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

I sighed and handed her the gourd…the easy way. Easy for her, anyway. My arm muscles were still twitching with the urge to raise it into head-bonking range.

“You’re such a good friend, kiddo,” she told me and hugged me tight.

I don’t know about the friend part, but sucker? Uh-huh. I was definitely that. We were in my Toyota driving to Tory’s within minutes.

“Listen, kiddo,” Barbara lectured as I headed into downtown Sausalito. “I’ve watched Tory go from metaphysical passion to metaphysical passion for years.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Last year it was Wicca. It was healing crystals before that, and—”

“And now Tory’s channeling Rogerio,” I finished for Barbara. I liked finishing
her
sentences once in a while.

“Yeah,” Barbara said, not missing a beat. “Rogerio’s a real attention-getter.”

“Is that why Tory ‘channels’ him, then?” I asked, turning Barbara’s way. “For attention?”

“There’s a pedestrian in the crosswalk, Kate,” Barbara informed me.

I slammed on my breaks. The woman in the crosswalk gave me the finger. Barbara’s driving habits
were
catching!

Tory’s house was in the hills above Sausalito proper. And it was an impressive house: two stories of forties-style white stucco with intricate mauve and purple trim and a well-groomed garden behind neatly pruned hedges.

“What does Tory do for a living?” I asked Barbara as I found a space and banked my wheels on the incline. The richer the homeowner, the steeper the hill.

“She’s a bank teller,” Barbara said and frowned suddenly.

“Do you get a house like this on a bank teller’s salary?” I asked.

“Not unless you’re making a lot of withdrawals,” she said.

“And what’s she doing home on a workday, anyway?” I muttered to myself, pushing my car door open with respect. They tend to slap back on hills like Tory’s.

But there’s always the possibility of a family inheritance, or a well-paid divorce, I reminded myself as Tory greeted us at the intricately carved double doors with a squeal of delight.

“Kate, Barbara,” she chirped and hugged us both as if we were family.

As we entered her house, I wished we were family. The designer-perfect interior spoke as loudly of money as Rogerio apparently did in Tory’s ear. And it smelled of incense. Subtle, expensive incense. I wondered if someone was making designer incense these days. The spacious living room was lined with custom-made cabinets for Tory’s smaller crystals and ornate carved stands for the larger ones. Barbara eyed a crystal ball that must have been two feet across. Coveting thy neighbor’s crystal ball. I could see it in her eyes. Of course, this ball wasn’t just glass. Even I could see the myriad crystal facets glinting and sending shafts of light into the room from beneath its smooth exterior. It could have been alive.

“Beautiful collection,” Barbara commented. “Where—”

“Oh, wait a moment,” Tory cut her off, closing her eyes. She put a palm to her forehead. “Rogerio’s speaking.”

We waited as she leaned her head to the side and listened. Barbara’s usually serene features tightened slightly.

“Rogerio says he greets you and welcomes you to this house and its Angelic Realms,” Tory finally announced. She opened her eyes, a pleased smile on her face.

“Ask him if he knows who killed Silk Sokoloff,” I demanded. I figured we might as well get it over with. I had a feeling that otherwise we could be at this woman’s mercy for a long time.

Tory closed her eyes and tilted her head again.

“Rogerio doesn’t know who killed Silk,” she finally told us, with a cheery smile. “Silk doesn’t know who killed Silk. She was caught from behind. But Rogerio wants you to know that Silk has been transformed and is profoundly happy now.”