Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

“It can’t be at all pleasant to go riding in the rain,” she said after a moment.

  “No, I imagine not.”

  Libby started to smile and then cut it short, but not before I caught the glint of smugness in her expression, like the cat with the taste of canary still fresh in his mouth.

  Chapter 22

  Susie Sullivan’s simple little brunch on Saturday was, as I’d expected, neither simple nor little. Because of the wet weather we were confined to the house, but there was still ample room for mingling. And with the cheer of three blazing fireplaces, the gloomy dampness of the day was recast into a backdrop for cozy comfort.

  When I arrived, Susie was standing at the far end of the living room talking with, or more aptly fawning over, a man I didn’t recognize. Silver-haired and slight of build, he was not unattractive. But he had none of the smooth self-confidence or moneyed polish that typified Susie’s usual taste in men.

  Since they were deep in conversation with another couple, I decided to save my greeting for later. I looked around for Michael, who’d said he’d try to make it but would offer no promises. When I didn’t find him, I snagged a glass of champagne and a small pastry, and joined Sharon by the hearth in the den. Between bites, I told her about my visit with Dennis and Denise.

  She laughed. “Must have been quite a sight.”

  “It was. Interestingly, though, I found Denise more appealing than Dennis.”

  “George has a cousin who wears skirts around the house on the advice of his shrink. Something about getting in touch with his ‘feminine inner self.’ ” She paused and cocked her head. “Do you imagine it’s the same sort of thing?”

  “You think I asked?”

  “It does help explain Dennis’s knowledge of women’s shoes, though.”

  It did. To a degree. But I wasn’t convinced it was the full explanation.

  I’d started to explore the matter further with Sharon when I spied Marvin Melville across the room talking to a pert young brunette dressed for a warm summer’s afternoon. While the rest of us were bundled up against the cold, she wore a short, sleeveless sheath made of something soft and clinging. And it looked terrific. She had the body of one who either worked hard at it or was born blessed.

  “I wonder what Marvin’s doing here,” I murmured.

  “Who?”

  “That guy in the blue shirt.” I gestured as unobtrusively as possible with my champagne glass. “He’s a teacher at the high school. Marvin Melville.”

  “So that’s who he is. He came with Cheri.”

  “The aerobics instructor?”

  Sharon nodded. “And the only reason she’s here is because she promised to bring her father. That’s him talking with Susie. He’s the owner and publisher of Focus West.”

  Well, that explained the dazzle in Susie’s smile. A piece in Focus West would be a coup for any aspiring journalist. Doubly so for one whose clips were limited to the society page of The Walnut Hills Sun.

  Sharon paused for a sip of champagne, then continued. “I was there when Susie found out he was in town. You could practically see the lights come on and the wheels begin to churn. Next thing you know she’d thrown together this little brunch. You have to hand it to her, she doesn’t let opportunity slip by.”

  I nodded agreement, then excused myself to seize an opportunity of my own. I made my way across the room and eased into the corner next to Marvin, whose fingers were caressing Cheri’s bare shoulder.

  “Can I talk to you a minute, Marvin?” I asked. “It’s about Julie.”

  Cheri looked at him with a coquettish pout. “Not a wife or girlfriend, I hope.”

  Marvin blushed. “A student.”

  “The one who was murdered last week,” I added. Cheri’s expression changed from playfulness to genuine chagrin. “Me and my big mouth. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She turned to Marvin. “You never said anything. I didn’t realize she was one of your students.”

  He nodded, swallowed. “It’s not exactly a fun topic.”

  “No, of course not.” She unwrapped herself from Marvin’s grasp. “I’ll go freshen my drink and let you two talk.”

  Marvin watched her wander off, mesmerized no doubt by the rhythmic pull of fabric across her tight little backside. I was fascinated myself, for a moment or two, then I turned to address Marvin.

  “I’m interested in the article Julie was researching for the newspaper,” I told him.

  “Huh?” His attention was still clearly fixed on Cheri.

  “Didn’t you give an assignment for a story involving research?”

  Reluctantly, he shifted mental gears. “It wasn’t for the paper necessarily. It’s a more general assignment, like a term project. A piece that might, conceivably, be published in something other than a school paper.”

  “Okay, project then. What can you tell me about it?”

  “Like I told you before, I don’t know what Julie was doing.”

  “Not even what the general subject was?”

  He shook his head. “I got the feeling it was something Julie felt emotional about, maybe related in some way to her mother’s death. She seemed reluctant to discuss it, though, and we’re only a couple of months into the term so I didn’t push.”

  “Are most of the kids as secretive as Julie about their research?”

  He looked at me, amused. “Most of the kids haven’t even begun to think about a topic yet.”

  I saw Michael at the door, looking around uncertainly. I tried to catch his eye, but Susie beat me to it, cornering him even before he had a chance to grab a glass of champagne. I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t pleased. Guilt tugged at my consciousness, but I pushed it aside. He’d have to fend for himself for a bit longer.

  I turned back to Marvin. “Julie may have written some letters in connection with her research. Would there be copies at school?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What about notes or a rough draft? Do you think there might be something in the computer?”

  “Possibly.” He cleared his throat. “Someone from the police department came by yesterday to have a look. I don’t think he found much.”

  “What about the Internet?” I asked. “Libby mentioned something about a poetry group Julie participated in.”

  Marvin shifted his position, rocked back a bit on his heels, looked a little sheepish. “I don’t know much about poetry.”

  “But you do know about the Internet.”

  He shifted again and rolled his shoulders. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s how you met Cheri, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, that.” Marvin’s face grew flush. “I wish she wouldn’t go around telling people that story. It seems so, I don’t know, shallow.”

  His embarrassment amused me. “Hey, what works, works. She’s certainly attractive.”

  “Yes,” he said, flushing a deeper shade of red, “she is.”

  “I was thinking maybe Julie met someone that way too, through the poetry group.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know about that.”

  I glanced again in Michael’s direction. His gaze found mine, and he shot me a pleading look. “I’ve got to go rescue a friend,” I told Marvin. “If you find anything, let me know.”

  He nodded. “See you Monday.”

  Susie was winding down by the time I joined them. She’d apparently pinned Michael down on a date for a formal interview and pried loose enough answers to sustain her until then. I was able to wrest him away without much of a struggle.

  We were standing at the buffet with plates half-loaded, when Michael nudged me with his shoulder. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

  “Getting something to eat.”

  “No, I meant here at this party.”

  “I know Susie’s not—”

  Michael leaned closer and whispered in my ear. “You’ve obviously got Anna covered for a few hours. I’m off today, and Don is out of town for the weekend so his apartment is all mine—” He looke
d at me expectantly, then set his plate down and took my arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “You mean, just leave?”

  He grinned. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  <><><>

  It was obvious from the look of Don’s apartment that he was single. The furnishings were bare-bones stark, the rest of the place cluttered and dusty. Not that I spent much time taking in the decor. What I focused on first were the tiny buttons on Michael’s shirt, then the buckle of his belt and the familiar contours of his body. After that, I stopped looking altogether and concentrated instead on the weightless,, shimmering swells of pleasure.

  “You didn’t really want to stay at Susie’s, did you?” Michael asked afterwards, his arm draped comfortably across my breast.

  “You needed to ask?”

  He smiled. “Just wanted to make sure.”

  “It wasn’t very polite, though, sneaking off the way we did.”

  “I’m willing to bet Susie never noticed.” He adjusted the pillow under his head. “Is she really trying to make a name for herself as a serious journalist?”

  “For now. Although I suspect that if Cheri’s father were better looking, she might settle for being married to a serious journalist. None of Susie’s passions are very enduring.”

  Michael traced a pattern of interlocking circles on my skin. “I hope yours are.”

  “You’re not worried about your own?”

  He smiled. “I have only one passion and it is much too hot to ever burn out.”

  “Speaking of burning passions,” I said, twisting sideways, “what did you find on the school computers?”

  Michael stopped his tracing and poked me. “Love of my job was not the passion I was referring to.”

  “No?”

  “Most decidedly not.” He kissed me lightly. His fingers moved again across my skin.

  “Were there any messages to Julie?” I asked after a moment.

  “Do we have to talk about this stuff now?”

  “I don’t see you as often as I used to, remember? It may be now or never.”

  Michael sighed.

  I pulled myself upright and tried again. “Any lewd messages?”

  “No. And nothing that struck me as significant. I took a look at the poetry groups. All pretty tame.” He rolled over on an elbow. “Cindy Purcell’s stuff, on the other hand, was anything but tame.”

  “Pornography?”

  “No, mostly just kind of . . . kinky. Definitely erotic. Funny that her friends had such a different impression of her. But I guess that’s one of the attractions of these groups. When you’re anonymous, you can let your hair down, become an entirely different person.”

  “Anonymity didn’t protect Cindy,” I pointed out. “Assuming your theory about how she met her killer is correct.”

  “I suspect that Cindy gave out too much information about herself.”

  Through the break in the curtains I could see the rain falling in a slow, steady drizzle. “Does Gates still think the same person is responsible for both murders?”

  “More or less. He’s looking for other unsolved cases that might be similar. I think the guy’s already got his eye on the talk show circuit.”

  “I thought you said he was good.”

  “He is. It’s just that he also likes the limelight.”

  “You’ll remember to pass along what I told you about the Shepherds using Julie’s money? And about the letters she had sent to Dennis’s place?”

  Michael nodded. “Meanwhile, they’ve found a witness who might have seen Julie getting into a car on San Pablo the night she was killed.”

  “Getting in or being dragged in?”

  “Sounded voluntary from what I heard.” Michael kissed my ear. “Can we stop with all the questions now? Seems to me we can find better things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  He kissed me again. And then again. “This is nice,” he murmured, his breath soft and warm against my cheek. “Even better than being at home. No worry about interruptions.”

  “You’re right.” I curled to face him and was just about to return the kisses when a high-pitched squeak sounded from next to the bed.

  Michael groaned and rolled away to pick up his beeper. “I’d better call in,” he said grudgingly.

  I sighed. Not so different from home, after all. Michael punched in the number, carried on a monosyllabic conversation, and then scratched a quick note on a sheet of paper by the phone before hanging up.

  “The techs have identified a guy Cindy Purcell communicated with over the Internet,” he said, turning to me. “A guy by the name of Frank Davis, with a record. Seems he was visiting his mother in Berkeley when Cindy was killed. They’d apparently set up a date to meet a week earlier.” He grabbed his shirt. “I need to talk to Mrs. Davis.”

  “Now?”

  Michael tossed me my own clothes. “I’d like to get to her before her son has a chance to coach her.”

  I rolled over and reached for my underwear. Worse than home, I thought. There, at least, I could take my time getting dressed.

  Chapter 23

  “Frankie’s a good boy,” Mrs. Davis said for the second time since ushering us into her house in north Berkeley. “He wouldn’t be involved in any murders. Wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

  She sat upright on the edge of an armchair and brushed at a wisp of gray-blond hair that had sprung loose from its mooring at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in gray slacks and a sweater, and still clutched the book of crossword puzzles she’d been working when we arrived. Mrs. Davis wasn’t the frail, impoverished woman I’d somehow envisioned, but it was clear Michael’s questions were causing her considerable agitation.

  “When did he last visit you?” Michael asked.

  “He comes to see me every year. At least once every year. He’s a good boy.”

  Michael leaned forward. Although he spoke gently, his words were blunt. “He’s a convicted sex offender, Mrs. Davis.”

  “It was all that girl’s fault. She lied in court. Frankie would have never done those things she said. I know my son.”

  I huddled at one end of the sofa, arms wrapped across my chest, and wondered why I’d agreed to come along. Michael’s company, I suppose. But at that moment, I would rather have been almost anywhere else. I didn’t want to witness the woman’s distress, didn’t want to hear in her voice the dying embers of a mother’s dreams.

  Michael’s fingers formed a steeple. “Can you tell me how long ago he left?”

  She shook her head. “Couple of weeks ago.”

  “Did he visit with friends while he was here? Maybe go out some evenings, rent a video?”

  “He’s a good son. He fixed my drain, cleaned the garage. He took me to Spenger’s for dinner.”

  Michael nodded and tried again. The woman was adamant; Frankie was a good boy.

  “Tell me about him,” Michael said. “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a computer programmer, in Dallas.” There was no mistaking the pride in Mrs. Davis’s voice. “He stays clear of trouble.”

  “He’s single?”

  She nodded, ran a hand across her knee. “He hasn’t met the right girl yet.”

  “Did your son go out in the evenings while he was here visiting you?”

  Mrs. Davis straightened. “He might have gotten together with friends. I don’t remember for sure.” The cadence of her words made clear her unwillingness to talk further.

  Eventually Michael coaxed from her a vague approximation of the dates of her son’s visit, which coincided with Cindy Purcell’s death. But he got little more in the way of relevant information. After we left, he dropped me at my car, still parked in front of Don’s apartment.

  “I’m going in to work,” he said. “Looks like I may be flying to Dallas. I’ll let you know if I do.”

  “Do you think Frank Davis is the killer?”

  “I don’t know. Might not know after I talk to him, either, but I’ve got to g
ive it a shot.”

  I kissed him. “Remember, Faye leaves Monday. Don’t stay away longer than you have to.”

  He smiled. “As if there were any chance of that.”

  Saturday evening I made a few more phone calls in search of T. L. Wiley, residing somewhere in Minnesota. I fared no better than I had earlier. Presumably the police would have better luck when they got around to checking. If they got around to checking, I corrected.

  Although Michael had begun an initial search, he’d done so with little enthusiasm. And he’d turned the information about Julie’s correspondence over to Gates, with a reminder to me that it was, after all, Berkeley’s case. I was afraid that might be the end of it.

  After dinner, I carried Julie’s art bin and portfolio to the table and began sorting through them. Her supplies were neat and organized, and it was clear they’d been used with care. This was in marked contrast to many, if not most, of the classroom bins—which were catchalls for everything from chewing gum wrappers to dirty gym socks.

  Julie’s portfolio was orderly, as well. I went through it slowly, appreciating once again those pieces I’d seen before, and finding myself equally admiring of those that were new to me. All of her work was skillfully rendered, and much of it exhibited a passion, a uniqueness of vision, that was the mark of true talent. It brought home to me again the sorrow I felt at her death. A sorrow made all the more acute by the lingering feeling that I might have been able to prevent it.

  I pulled out the featureless self-portrait she’d done that Friday morning in class. A drawing so obviously the work of a troubled mind, I kicked myself now for not reacting more strongly. But I’d been caught up in the routine of the class and my own nervousness about being summoned to Combs’s office, and I’d let it slide.

  With a wrenching awareness of my own complicity, I set the portrait aside and pulled out a Picasso-like drawing of Mario Sanchez. Three eyes and an angular mouth that emerged in segments, but he was nonetheless clearly identifiable. I remembered Julie working on the piece, and Mario’s brusqueness at seeing himself so portrayed. But I thought that he might now appreciate having it to keep.