A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Who are they exactly?” I asked as Nathan put a key into a brass panel next to the elevator.

  He shrugged his perpetually slumped shoulders. “Martina’s looking into it. She was the one who hired the security guy.

  I thought it seemed a little overreactive at the time. I thought we ought to be able to calm down and work this out without all the hostility. But…”

  His words trailed off as we rode up in the elevator.

  Except for the high ceilings and windows and plush carpet, Nathan’s office didn’t look anything like the seminar room we had just left. The furniture was like the furniture in any bureaucrat’s office. Metal desk and ancient office chair. A half dozen filing cabinets. And a couple of vinyl visitors’ chairs which Wayne and I settled into. The only thing out of place was the old Labrador retriever who came waddling out from under the desk to rest his graying muzzle on my hand. I patted his head. He reached up a paw and patted me back.

  “Sigmund,” Nathan announced, flopping into his own ancient chair which squeaked dispiritedly.

  “What?” I said.

  “My dog’s name is Sigmund,” he clarified, his eyes on his desk. A desk cluttered with more paperwork than mine. That cheered me a little, whatever his dog’s name was.

  “Sigmund Freud,” Wayne whispered in my ear.

  “Ah,” I whispered back.

  “Not very many people get the joke,” Nathan told us, smiling. His hearing was awfully good. Or else he read lips. I’d have to remember not to whisper anything important around him from now on.

  “Anyway, I’m sure you’re here to talk about my father,” Nathan went on, looking down at the stacks of paper again. “And his death. First, let me say that my father wasn’t a great man. And he wasn’t a terrible man. All this guru stuff got everyone confused. He was just human.”

  “Well, we did wonder…” Wayne began.

  “If he really abused my stepmother,” Nathan finished for him, his voice still soft. “The answer is yes and no. He did hit her. But as I said before, she always threw the first punch. They had a difficult marriage. Though I think they actually cared for each other deeply. His grief over her death was real.” He paused as Sigmund trotted over to lay his head in Nathan’s lap with a long doggy sigh. I noticed Nathan hadn’t answered the real question. The real question wasn’t just about abuse, it was about murder. Had Nathan’s father murdered his stepmother?

  “What Dad really was,” Nathan told us, petting the old dog gently, “was a narcissist with exhibitionist tendencies. Actually, he was a lot like Martina.”

  It was then I remembered that Nathan had a B.A. in psychology.

  “He was a man who needed the continuous admiration and adulation of his students. He was addicted to it. And that need grew and grew.” Nathan leaned back in his squeaking chair, obviously more comfortable in this abstract professorial mode than in any other. Sigmund repositioned his head. “The ultimate irony is that the more Dad’s narcissism grew, the more he lost touch with his true inner core. And manifesting that inner core is the essence of the Institute.”

  “You’re able to analyze your father better than most people could,” I said, mostly to fill the ensuing silence.

  “Yes, but I loved him too,” Nathan answered gently, his eyes misting under his glasses. “I just couldn’t help but see what was happening. The way he needed more and more to feed his sense of worth. I even tried to talk to him about it. But he was on his own path.” Nathan took off his glasses and scrubbed at them with the corner of his pullover. “I just wish…”

  Then he rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on. He sat up straight again.

  “Now that Dad’s gone, I’ll probably go back and get my Ph.D. in psychology. I inherit the Institute jointly with my grandmother and Diana. But the Institute was Dad’s, not mine. I don’t want to run it. And I wonder if Martina wouldn’t do a better job. She has what it takes. I don’t.”

  I found myself nodding, and wondered if Nathan expected an argument. But I didn’t see any manipulation in his face. At least in what I could see of it under all the fur.

  “Martina reminds me of your father,” I said instead.

  “Boy, have you got that right,” he responded, awe raising his usual volume. “Over the years, her voice and mannerisms have gotten more and more like his. They’d become almost interchangeable. Except that Dad was a real innocent. And Martina—”

  He cut himself off, shaking his head ruefully.

  “Anyway, old Sigmund, the human one, did say all boys want to marry their mothers,” he went on with a smile. “Somehow I ended up with my father.”

  “You’re a good observer,” Wayne began slowly. “Does anyone in our wedding class look like a murderer to you?”

  Nathan frowned and shook his head.

  “I’ve certainly thought about it,” he answered. “And I have yet to come up with a single answer. Ona’s authoritarian and combative. But I don’t think she’s a killer. Yvonne and Emma are probably both manic-depressives, though all I’ve seen so far is their manic sides. Perry’s a classic co-dependent. He’s lucky he has Ona to straighten him out. I haven’t quite gotten a feel for Tessa yet. She’s rigid, but compassionate, I think.” He frowned again. “But to answer your question, no one’s personality cries out ‘murderer’ to me. I just wish it was that simple.”

  “Me too,” I agreed.

  “I can fill you in on a little family background, if that’ll help,” he offered.

  “Go,” I ordered. Talk about your silver platter.

  “Believe it or not, I had a fairly happy childhood,” Nathan began. “My parents divorced early on, when my mom, Helen, discovered she was a lesbian. And that, interestingly enough, worked out well, leaving the ‘Dad’ slot open for my father— no other man to usurp it. So Dad was always around. And Mom and Dad were really united in caring for me. Dad took me everywhere when I was a kid. And did all the stuff fathers are supposed to: camping and fishing and sailing and all that.” His voice thickened, and I saw that his eyes were misty again. If he was making all this up, he was doing a mighty good job of it. “So I was lucky. I even got Dad’s mother, Irene, thrown in for a granny.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes under his glasses. Suddenly, I wanted to meet this Irene.

  “Would you give us your mother’s and grandmother’s phone numbers?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he agreed easily and wrote the numbers down on a slip of paper torn from a pad somewhere beneath all the clutter on his desk. If he had family secrets to hide, he apparently wasn’t worried about our uncovering them.

  “By the way,” he added, “Dad’s memorial service is Wednesday morning. Here at the Institute. I’m inviting everyone from the class. It seems right. Anyway, your visit saves me a call.”

  There didn’t seem to be a lot left to say after that.

  But Wayne wasn’t finished.

  “What about Diana?” he asked.

  Nathan’s phone rang at that point. And he grabbed it. But there wasn’t quite enough fur on his face to hide the blush underneath.

  “Uh-huh,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. “That’ll be fine. Anyone who wants a refund—”

  And then I smelled a familiar sweet scent and Alicia popped up again, ready to escort us from the building.

  First, Wayne and I waved goodbye to Nathan. Minutes later, we were saying our farewells to Alicia and the security man as we exited via the automatic doors two floors down. Finally, we were out of Oz.

  As we walked to the parking lot, I saw Martina Monteil slide into the passenger’s side of the Mercedes parked next to my Toyota. But it wasn’t until the car pulled away that I saw the face of the man driving. It was the man in the blue suit and red tie, the man from Growth Imperatives, Unlimited.

  - Twelve -

  “Did you see who that was?” I asked Wayne in a whisper.

  But he didn’t answer me.

  “Wayne, why do you suppose—” I began, turning. And then I s
aw the reason for his silence. We had company. A man stood at Wayne’s side, a tall skinny man wearing a cowboy hat with a blond braid as long as Diana’s black one snaking out from beneath the hat’s feathered brim.

  “Hi!” the man greeted us enthusiastically, extending a hand. “My name’s Sky-Guy, and I’d like to buy this here Institute.”

  I shook his hand automatically. It felt too soft for a cowboy’s. Shouldn’t it have calluses or something?

  “Sorry, but we don’t own the Institute,” Wayne told Sky-Guy and nudged me in the ribs.

  Right. Move it. I began to walk toward the Toyota, speeding up a little as we got closer. We weren’t out of Oz yet.

  “Well, that’s a darn shame,” the cowboy said as he followed us, his blue eyes bulging slightly as he spoke. “Man, this place is a virtual light-and-right show, ya know? Techno-magico-emotion, intergalactic-muse, and purification-spirit-location, all sprouting in redwood. And the name of names: Skyler. Mine’s Sky-Guy, you know.”

  “Right,” I said, sticking my key in the Toyota.

  I backed out of the parking space, still hearing bits and pieces about celestial spirals and cyber-nature through my open window. I rolled it up as fast as I could and waved goodbye through the glass.

  Even then, I could still see his lips moving in the rearview mirror. Only he appeared to be talking to the sky now. That made sense, his being Sky-Guy and all.

  “Where to next, sir?” I asked Wayne once we were out of the gates.

  “Sanity,” he replied gruffly.

  “I knew you could drive someone insane, but can you drive them sane?” I mused aloud.

  He turned and looked at me, brows descending rapidly.

  “Yes?” I asked lightly.

  “Yes,” he agreed heavily.

  “Tessa,” I suggested halfway home on the road from Golden Valley. Tessa’s mortuary was less than five minutes from our house. I’d looked it up in the phone book under Mortuary/Funeral Homes that morning and realized I’d passed it hundreds of times without really registering its presence. But who wants to register the presence of a mortuary, anyway?

  “Tessa,” Wayne agreed briefly. “Sanity.”

  There was a funeral party just leaving when we arrived, all in black. Somber black. Formal, somber black. Suddenly, I realized I was in my Chi-Pants and a sweatshirt. At least the pants and sweatshirt were black, though there was a colorful Laurel Burch bird on the front of the shirt. After the grieving party had passed, Wayne strode up to the door with me dragging along behind.

  I was still obsessing about my clothes when Tessa arrived and opened the door. And suddenly everything felt all right again.

  “Kate,” she said, her hushed voice warm and sympathetic.

  She reached an arm around my shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “And Wayne,” she added, limiting herself to a pat on his arm. Probably these were just the customary niceties extended by a mortician/funeral director. But I still felt welcome.

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” she told us then, motioning us inside to the reception area. “I’ve been feeling that I must apologize for Ray’s behavior.”

  The reception area was decorated much as one might have expected from a woman like Tessa Johnson. Golden-beige walls. Muted gray carpeting with flecks of cream and golden beige. Blond wood benches and chairs scattered about the room. The colors were as somber, yet uplifting and comforting, as the woman who stood before us, dressed in a charcoal suit with a golden-beige silk blouse that was a perfect accent to her mocha-brown features and upswept curly gray hair. She stared at us for a moment, serene deep-set eyes the only noticeable feature in her long, narrow face.

  “Are there any more funerals going on here?” I whispered anxiously. If there were, I didn’t want to be caught with the dead in my sweatshirt and Chi-Pants.

  She glanced at her watch. “Not for at least another hour,” she assured me and then went on, a hint of a smile curving her sensual mouth. A mouth whose sensuality was invisible until she smiled. “I’m afraid Ray has a tendency toward the dramatic. When it’s the drama of romance, it can be very appealing, but regrettably the drama of hostility doesn’t work nearly as well.”

  There was something about that hint of a smile that made me feel as if I were the recipient of an intimate gift.

  I smiled and nodded back.

  “I can assure you, however, it’s all drama.” She paused, her serene eyes suddenly intense and searching. “He’s a breed of dog that doesn’t have nearly as much bite as bark.”

  “Guessed that,” Wayne replied, his tone one of embarrassment. I wondered why. Did he feel that he’d brought on the encounter with Ray? And then I wondered why Tessa was apologizing for Ray, instead of Ray himself.

  “Well,” Tessa said briskly, “I’m sure you’re here to talk about Sam Skyler. Unless you have any loved ones…”

  I froze guiltily, then saw the subtle smile on her face once more.

  This time I laughed. A little hysterically, actually, registering the fact that we were indeed in a funeral home. Or a mortuary. Or whatever they called it.

  “Would you like the grand tour while we talk?” Tessa offered.

  “Sure,” Wayne agreed, though I wasn’t so sure myself.

  “I’m not certain what I can tell you about the ‘loved one,’“ she said, leading us into the chapel. It took me a moment to realize that Sam Skyler was “the loved one.” More funeral humor? I looked into her face and saw a glint of laughter in her eyes.

  I was beginning to wonder if Tessa was really a standup comic in the sober clothing of a funeral director. Or maybe it was the constant gloom that pushed her to these little jokes. And I began to understand her attraction to Ray Zappa, Mr. Life of the Party. That is, when he wasn’t angry.

  “I didn’t know Sam Skyler before the Wedding Ritual seminar,” she told us. “And I didn’t really get to know him then. He seemed to have enough to say to himself. I didn’t feel the need to intervene.”

  I laughed again, the sound bouncing off the walls of the chapel eerily. I knew I was in a funeral home here, with the gold-leaf pews and maroon carpets and gray walls. And tall brass candlesticks everywhere.

  “Look up,” Tessa ordered.

  We did. And saw a magical painted sky of midnight blue, sparkling with golden stars and moons in various phases.

  “Beautiful,” was all I could whisper.

  “I painted it myself when I bought the funeral home from Mrs. Olcott, my former boss’s wife,” Tessa said quietly. “My boss was a wonderful man, the man who trained me.”

  “You were the one who buried Perry Kane’s father, weren’t you?” I asked, suddenly remembering, my eyes still on the ceiling. “And Liz Atherton’s husband?”

  Tessa’s answer was a little slower this time. And there were no jokes either.

  “Yes,” was all she said. I brought my eyes back down from the magical ceiling and saw that she was no longer smiling.

  Had I broken some kind of rule of funereal etiquette? Did funeral directors have confidentiality considerations like lawyers and doctors?

  Tessa led us to the casket room before I had a chance to ask. The room was far too spooky as far as I was concerned, filled with painted coffins that looked like overgrown bassinets, overflowing with fluffy silken linings and little ruffled pillows. And the incongruous smell of lacquer floating over it all.

  “Nice,” Wayne commented, patting one of the larger models. Was he serious? “What are they made of?”

  “Most of our caskets are metal, steel, or copper. Only a few are wood anymore these days,” Tessa answered. “A lot of them are made by former auto companies.” The smile came back in her voice. “Recognizing a need and filling it.”

  “Well, if either of us needs any funeral services we’ll be sure and use yours,” Wayne announced cheerily. “Our house can’t be more than two or three minutes away. Literally.”

  “Oh my, you do flatter me so,” Tessa replied flirtatiously, a Southern belle
for an instant. “I’ll keep a casket warm.”

  Ugh.

  “Did you notice anything odd about any of the members of the Wedding Ritual class?” I cut in. I’d had enough casket jokes.

  Again, Tessa didn’t answer right away. But this time I was watching her face. And her eyes were troubled.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered slowly.

  “‘Don’t think so,’“ I repeated. “Tessa, is there something you noticed that you’re not telling us?”

  “No, no,” she answered finally, shaking her head. But there was something. I was sure of it. Something about Ray? Or one of her former customers? Or—

  “You’ll really enjoy the embalming room,” she announced brightly.

  And all other thoughts left my mind. If that had been her intention, she’d done a great job.

  The embalming room was actually two rooms, neither of which was decorated tastefully. Or decorated at all. Unless cement was the new look. The first room was the staging area where the bodies were received and sorted. Gurneys and hoists dominated, along with a couple of respectful lab-coated assistants and two, well…bodies. With toe tags. The room got all shimmery and liquid for a moment as Tessa explained the necessity of the toe tags to avoid any confusion. I took a couple of deep breaths and wondered if there was anything to this karma business. Was my karma somehow entwined with corpses? Eternally? The room began to shimmer again. And I told myself to cut it out. Thinking, that is.

  The second room was where the actual embalming took place. Now, that was a great place to be dizzy. First off, it smelled of disinfectant, a smell that always makes me think of doctors’ offices. And everything was already slanted, including the floor and a large white porcelain fixture mounted on a pedestal, that looked like a cross between a bathtub and a serving tray. I directed my eyes away as Tessa’s hushed voice explained the uses of the hoses on one end and the hoses and drain on the other. And the trocar—

  “Trocar!” I interrupted, zapped out of my dizziness by the word. “Did you put the trocar on our front door?”