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

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  He shook my hand when he got to me, a careful sweaty handshake, whispering a brief thanks for “taking care of Tessa.”

  And then I got it. I’d helped the woman he was in love with. Friendliness, gratitude. But she had called me instead of him. Jealousy and anger. And then there was the built-in cop’s suspicion of my actions. Maybe even of Tessa’s actions. No wonder his face was twitching.

  Campbell was next in line to thank me and shake my hand. At least his hand wasn’t sweaty. I gave him a quick hug, embarrassed by all this gratitude, and pushed him back toward Emma. Because people were watching.

  Ona squinted my way and then turned her gaze thoughtfully toward Emma. But Emma’s eyes were on Yvonne now. And Yvonne was watching Martina, who was watching Tessa, who was eyeing Nathan. Nathan for his part seemed to be scanning the whole crowd. His eyes stopped when they reached Perry, however. I turned to Wayne. His gaze was firmly fixed on me. I hoped he at least was thinking of wedding ceremonies instead of murder. On second thought, I decided I’d rather he had his mind on murder.

  “So Yvonne, how’s it going?” I asked, poking a hole in the silence of the room.

  She jerked her eyes back from Martina Monteil like a minister caught reading pornography. And then her face curved into her usual big smile.

  “Oh, I’m just moving along at warp-speed,” she sang out and proceeded across the room to hug Wayne and me, ankle and wrist bracelets jingling. “Everyone’s here and ready to be energized. Except for Diana and Liz, of course.” She paused for a moment, running her hand through her curly blond hair, colliding with a pink heart-shaped barrette. Was she thinking of the other missing person? “But love is a wondrous thing and we’re all here to celebrate it!” she finished up enthusiastically.

  “With the exception of one dead man,” Ona muttered.

  Martina Monteil shot her a warning glare that could have fried eggs. But Ona just returned the glare. They both drew back their shoulders.

  “So, Martina,” Yvonne went on quickly, her voice ascending even higher. “How are your plans for the Institute going?”

  “And what exactly do you mean by that?” Martina demanded quietly, turning our class leader’s way, glare still in place.

  Yvonne threw her jingling arms into the air. “Oh, nothing,” she squeaked.

  So far the celebration of love wasn’t going too well. I wondered just what had happened before we’d arrived.

  “The Institute is healing,” Nathan put in, his voice gentle and calming. “We are all healing.”

  “Healing, yes,” Yvonne jumped in gratefully. “Cosmically healing. And growing. And remembering that death is merely a passage—”

  “One-way ticket, though,” Ona commented.

  “Hey, how about that video you promised us?” Ray Zappa cut in quickly. “Sounds hot.”

  “Thank you, Ray,” Yvonne said and her gratitude sounded sincere. Desperately sincere. “Our video today is a sumptuous feast of love. Two lovers delighting in the bliss of their desire. A tango wedding. So everyone take a seat with your loved one.”

  I flinched at the phrase, shooting Tessa a quick glance as I thought of all the “loved ones” resting back at her funeral home. She caught the glance and grinned in return. Two minds with one thought? I took my opportunity and quickly stepped over to her to whisper in her ear.

  “Can I tell the class what happened to you?” I asked. “Then we could find out where people were at the time you were—”

  “No, Kate,” she whispered back, shaking her still bandaged head. “No.”

  And then she sat herself down with Ray on the velvet cushions of the wicker love seat. I joined Wayne on the paisley throw rug, the molded neon-purple plastic couch being occupied, as well as the tiger-stripe pillows, and turned my head dutifully toward the video screen. But I couldn’t help noticing that two of the love birds weren’t roosting together. Nathan and Martina stood yards apart as Yvonne pushed the button and the wedding began.

  Ray was right, the tango wedding was hot, so hot I wondered if the preacher should have replaced “You may kiss the bride” with “Have you already consummated the marriage right before our eyes?” All that slithering and swooning and undulating. Wow. I snuggled closer to Wayne, breathing in his scent. Maybe the two of us could take tango classes. It would probably take years, though, before we got that good. Now there was a cheery thought. Indefinite postponement of the wedding until we perfected the tango.

  “Jesus!” Ona commented, turning her baby face toward Perry as Yvonne pushed the Off button.

  “Way cool,” Emma added, her arm tightening around Campbell’s waist.

  “Yes, indeed,” Tessa agreed quietly. Ray threw his head back and laughed, then laid a big smacking kiss on her pinkening brown cheek.

  Whatever had gone down before, Yvonne had her Wedding Ritual seminar back now. Except for Nathan and Martina. A quick glance told me they were still standing exactly where they’d been when the video began.

  “Are you inspired?” Yvonne demanded of us, clapping her hands. “Are you ready?”

  I don’t know if I was ready for marriage, but I certainly wouldn’t have minded making love. I stroked Wayne’s chest and peered into his passion-glazed eyes.

  And then Yvonne passed out the questionnaires. On individual clipboards, no less.

  What was it that brought you together? was the first question.

  Murder, I answered silently, the last chords of the tango fading from my mind.

  Next on the list was: What is the passion that holds you together?

  And I was ashamed that I didn’t have an answer. Or maybe I had too many answers. My passion for Wayne didn’t spring from a common interest like computers or art, but from a heartfelt appreciation of his love, his lovemaking, his kindness, his vulnerability, his wit, his intelligence…Just for starters. Not to mention the food. Somehow I couldn’t think of Wayne without thinking of food.

  I set down my clipboard and turned to the man who inspired my passion. Because he did inspire passion, even if I couldn’t pinpoint its exact nature. Wayne’s brows were pulled down low in thought. He chewed on the pencil in his hand, apparently as stumped as I was. I put my arms around him and squeezed.

  We left not long after that, our questionnaires still as blank as the mental slate on which I’d planned to write the murderer’s name.

  But as Wayne pulled the Jaguar into our driveway, we came to the happy conclusion that forms weren’t as important as love, and that form wasn’t as important as substance. As commitment.

  “You’re right, Kate,” Wayne growled and my ears tingled joyously. “The format of the wedding doesn’t matter. Only its occurrence.”

  “Yes!” I shouted, throwing a high-five toward the ceiling of the Jag. “No long white veils, no steak costumes—”

  “Steak costumes?” he said, tilting his head my way.

  “Never mind.”

  “But the wedding will occur?” he prodded as he shut off the engine, his vulnerability peeking out from beneath his brows.

  “Soon,” I assured him and put my arms around him again.

  We were still holding hands when we reached the top of the front stairs. Connected emotionally and physically. To the exclusion of all else.

  So connected, I almost missed the sobs issuing from the woman standing at our front door. So did Wayne. I felt his body jerk in recognition at the same time as mine.

  Diana Atherton was at our door. Waiting.

  And she was crying. And talking. Or trying to.

  It was a few long minutes before I could make any sense at all of her mumbles and sobs. I heard “police” once, and “they think,” and one or two other things. Then finally a string of words burst out in one full sentence.

  “They think I did it!” she yelped.

  “They who—” I began.

  “The Quiero police. They think I killed Sam.” Now she was loud and clear.

  “But why?” I asked.

  “Evidence!”
she shrieked. “They say they have the evidence to convict me!”

  - Twenty -

  I stood back, out of Diana’s eardrum-blasting range. Just in time too.

  “But I didn’t do it!” she screamed on. “I didn’t kill Sam. I didn’t.” And then she started sobbing again.

  I stared at Wayne. He stared back. And finally we helped the weeping goddess into our house, each of us holding one arm very gently until we had guided her onto the denim couch.

  Then we sat down on either side of her, acting very, very calm. At least I was just acting.

  When she’d sobbed herself out for the moment—and I knew it might be only a moment—I leaned her way and quickly threw out my first question.

  “What kind of evidence do the police say they have?” I asked, keeping my voice low and soothing.

  “Massage oil!” she shouted, full volume.

  Ouch, that was loud. I quickly drew away from her, rubbing my ringing ear. I kept forgetting her lung power.

  But the volume was enough to click something in my brain. Hadn’t Felix mentioned the police finding oily hand prints on Sam’s jacket? But he’d also said that they’d found the imprints of Yvonne’s vases on his shoulder blades. That had to make the oily hand prints irrelevant. Or did it?

  “I always use this massage oil on my hands,” Diana went on, her usual sweet voice lower now but still nasal and rasping. “It’s honeysuckle scented, very natural. Organic and everything—”

  “And they matched that with the oil on Sam’s jacket?” I prompted.

  She shot me a quick, suspicious glance. She hadn’t mentioned the jacket yet.

  But then the look was replaced with one of admiration. Did she think I was finally displaying my magical powers of deduction as per her expectations?

  “Yes, on the jacket, exactly,” she said, turning even further my way, putting her moist hand on mine. “But that was just because I was massaging his shoulders that day. I did it as often as I could. Sam’s shoulders were always so tight. All his empathy, I think.”

  Or all his fears and ego, I thought back uncharitably. She withdrew her hand.

  “But that doesn’t mean I pushed him.”

  I nodded, and not insincerely. The person who’d pushed Sam Skyler had used the bottoms of Yvonne’s vases. At least that’s what I thought Felix had said. How else would the bruises have been so evident? That took force. Deadly force.

  I glanced across at Wayne. We’d promised Felix not to talk about the evidence. And I didn’t want to break that promise. Diana was still a suspect in my book. She could have massaged Sam first and then pushed him with the brass vases for all we knew. One action didn’t preclude the other. But still, the Quiero police had her terrified. And probably for no better reason than to try to scare her into an admission. They were more likely to get a nervous breakdown at this point.

  “The police are just trying to frighten you,” Wayne finally put in. “Don’t have enough evidence to convict.”

  “Really?” she said, her saucer blue eyes ready to believe as they turned his way, her hands fluttering toward her face. I caught the scent of honeysuckle. Was she still using the oil, even now?

  “Really,” he assured her.

  But then her eyes filled up with tears again. She clasped her fluttering hands together and pulled them down to her lap.

  “There’s more,” she told us, her words clogged but discernible. “Someone told them I was really in love with Nathan. And they’re right!” She looked at us both as if for forgiveness, one after another.

  We both nodded slowly in turn. I felt like the Pope. Or half of the Pope.

  “I’ve been falling in love with Nathan for months, but I didn’t want to be disloyal to Sam. I mean, I loved Sam too. He was so kind, so good with people. But I wasn’t in love anymore, I guess. But even so, how could I just drop him like that? And there was all the pressure from my mom not to marry Sam. I felt like I might just be caving in ‘cause of her. I didn’t know what to do—”

  “And then Sam died,” I finished up for her. How convenient for everyone, except, of course, for Sam.

  “Oh, Sam,” she murmured and then she was wailing again. Loudly.

  I put a hand over my ear closest to Diana. And Wayne and I both started throwing desperate, reassuring words her way. About Sam, about the police, about her love for Nathan. Anything to stop the wailing.

  The doorbell rang, succeeding in stopping Diana’s tears where our words had failed. I trotted to the door thankfully.

  I was even more thankful when I opened it. Diana’s mother, Liz Atherton, stood there. No nonsense salt-and-pepper hair and all. All right! Mom to the rescue. Our rescue.

  “Gary said Diana was headed over here,” Liz explained brusquely. She rubbed her temple and looked away as if embarrassed to intrude. “Said she was upset. Thought I could help.”

  “I’m so glad to see you—” I began.

  And then Diana cried, “Mom!” and jumped from the couch to run and throw herself into her mother’s arms. For a moment, I thought she’d knock the smaller woman over.

  Pretty soon, both Liz and Diana Atherton were seated on our denim couch, Wayne and I sitting on the futon across from them. Wayne offered Liz a succinct version of what Diana had told us, sans tears.

  “They’ll be wanting a scapegoat,” Liz commented when Wayne had finished the part about the massage oil on Sam’s jacket. She put her arm around her daughter’s trembling shoulders. “But it won’t be Diana.”

  “But Mom, they know I…I love Nathan,” Diana announced tremulously.

  “Nathan?” Liz said, drawing back from Diana. “But…” She stared at her daughter, as if she didn’t recognize her for a moment, then seemed to pull herself back together as she closed her eyes and rubbed her temple some more. Obviously, she was hearing Diana’s confession for the first time.

  Then abruptly, Liz stood up from the couch. “Diana and I will be going,” she announced. “Shouldn’t be troubling you good people anymore.”

  Then Diana stood too, back yoga-straight.

  The two women exited together, Liz’s arm around her daughter’s waist as they walked down the stairs, Diana’s long black braid brushing the back of her mother’s encircling arm as they went.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Liz said. “There is some justice in this world. The police won’t arrest you for Sam’s murder. I promise.”

  I just hoped she could keep that promise as I watched the two leave in their separate cars. I wasn’t so sure. Liz had said it herself—the Quiero police needed a scapegoat. They were between a rock and a hard place, so to speak. Or a bluff and a hard place. Sam’s spread-eagled body flashed into my mind in gruesome detail. I shook my head hard to rid myself of the vision. Think, I told myself. But my thoughts weren’t much better. With the vase prints on Sam’s shoulders, the police couldn’t just explain away Sam’s death as a suicide. And they probably didn’t have any better idea of who really killed him than we did. Scapegoat season in Quiero had probably just begun.

  Once mother and daughter were gone, Wayne and I flopped onto the couch, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  “Are we back on the case?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.

  Wayne opened his mouth, probably to object, but then seemed to change his mind midway to verbalization. He closed his mouth, then opened it again. With obvious reluctance.

  “Guess so,” he sighed. “But together, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed and stood up. “Let’s go see Nathan.”

  A call to the Institute got us Nathan this time. He was just leaving and agreed to see us at his home in half an hour.

  It was a long half hour. Because Wayne and I both spilled out all our theories on the way to Nathan’s, all the theories we weren’t supposed to be working on. Perry as religious fanatic (Wayne’s theory), Tessa as self head-bonker (mine), Nathan as playing out Oedipal feelings on his soon-to-be stepmother (Wayne’s), Martina as ambitious to gain control of th
e Institute (mine), Liz as being in love with Sam herself (Wayne’s), Ray as wanting the story (mine), and…We couldn’t seem to stop as the theories cascaded from our minds via our mouths.

  I was more confused than ever when we parked in front of Nathan’s apartment building. Because, between us, Wayne and I had motives for each and every person who had been there when Sam was pushed. Multiple motives. Except for ourselves. And I was sure we could have come up with those too if necessary.

  Nathan’s apartment was a lot like his office. His living room was stuffed with bookcases and filing cabinets. And his furniture might have come from the Salvation Army. In fact, it probably did, I decided, lowering myself onto the lone, lumpy brown couch next to Wayne. The major difference between his office and home was the extra animals here. Not only Sigmund, the graying Labrador retriever we’d already met, but an Irish setter, and three or four cats darting in and out and around the stacks of papers and books on the floor. No wonder Nathan cultivated such a furry face. He had to in order to fit in with his menagerie. Nathan pulled a kitchen chair across from us and sat down. A tabby with a well-chewed ear claimed his lap immediately to the yowls of the remaining cats.

  “You’re here about my dad?” Nathan asked, his voice as calm and mesmerizing as usual. He might have been a psychotherapist ready to listen. And then I remembered that a psychotherapist was indeed what he would probably become now that his father was gone.

  “We came to ask about your father,” I answered, trying to put the same mesmerizing tone into my voice. Trying to switch our roles. “But we came to see how you were doing too. Do you still think you’ll go after your Ph.D. in psychology now?” I would work up to the harder questions later.

  Nathan leaned back in his chair and absently stroked the cat in his lap. The tabby half closed its eyes, smugly surveying the restless feline underclass circling the chair.

  “Probably,” Nathan said after a few purrs from his lap. “My mom thinks I should. And Martina is certainly proving herself able and ready to take over the reins at the Institute. She’ll do a good job keeping it going.”