A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

“The guy who set up the Heartlink group originally. He knew Steve. He knows about groups.”

  “Very good,” my aunt trilled. Wayne smiled at her. I just kept my thoughts to myself. Did we really need a kindergarten teacher running this investigation? My aunt turned my way. I had a feeling it was my turn to recite.

  “My friend Ann runs a psychiatric facility,” I finally spit out. “She might know Garrett. And she might be able to give us a psychological slant on things.”

  My aunt nodded. I realized that I longed for a “very good” like the one she’d bestowed on Wayne.

  “I know an investment advisor,” Wayne jumped back in. “Guy’s gotta know the Kimmochis.”

  My aunt looked at me again. I was desperate.

  “I’ll call Craig,” I told her. “He’s a computer consultant, like Van.”

  “Craig?” she asked, her face crinkled as if she were trying to place the name. Or maybe it was crinkled in distaste.

  “Craig, my ex-husband!” I nearly screamed. I’d already told her this.

  Craig, the reason I didn’t want a formal wedding.

  Craig, who answered my phone call on the first ring.

  - Thirteen -

  “Kate, is that you?”

  The longing in Craig’s voice stirred up the guilt that I had to quell every time I spoke with him. The way Craig acted, you’d have thought that I was the one who’d left him, instead of the other way around. But it had been the other way around, and it had been painful. Then, once he’d decided divorcing me had been a mistake, he’d tried every way known to man—or at least every way known to Craig—to remedy the mistake. But I’d found Wayne by then.

  And to think that Craig and I had married formally fourteen years before our divorce. Weddings, ha!

  “It’s me,” I answered, using the light tone I always used with Craig. True, he’d been a philanderer and had divorced me, but he wasn’t malicious, just insensitive. I thought of Isaac for a moment. Then I went on. “Wayne and I are looking into a death—” I began.

  “The Men’s Group Massacre?” Craig asked, excitement overtaking the longing in his voice.

  “Where’d you hear that?” I demanded.

  “I read it in the Marin Mind” he told me.

  I clenched my jaw. Felix. It had to be his article.

  “Yeah, that one,” I conceded. “We wondered if you might know Van Eisner—”

  “Van the Man? You bet I know him,” Craig assured me. “Want some help, like the sailor said to the pickle—”

  “Just what you know about Van,” I cut him off. Craig’s jokes should have clued me in to the probably inevitable end of our relationship the first time I heard one. But I’d thought they were funny at the time.

  “I know a lot about him, Kate,” he told me. “Maybe I should come over.”

  I ignored the shimmy in my stomach and plunged ahead.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know Jerry Urban, too, would you?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, Jerry’s a really cool guy. He’s gay, you know. Did you hear the one about the gay guy who went to the dentist—”

  “Heard it,” I lied quickly. I was reliving my ex-husband’s insensitivity as we spoke. But still, he did know both suspects.

  “Oh,” Craig said, obviously disappointed at the jokus interruptus. “Jerry’s a real smart guy. His robotic golf caddie is going places. You sure you don’t want me to come over? I’m on top of my workload. And it’s time for lunch, anyway.”

  I held my hand over the receiver and looked across the entryway at Wayne. “Craig knows Van and Jerry,” I shouted at him as softly as a person can shout. “Can he come over?”

  “Okay, I’ll make lunch,” Wayne said in the tone of voice he’d use to say, “Gee, I’d love a flu shot.”

  “All right, Craig,” I relayed. “You can come over—”

  “I’ll be there before you can even blink,” he told me.

  I blinked and said, “Don’t hurry on my account.” But Craig didn’t answer. He’d already hung up.

  Wayne shambled into the kitchen like a zombie, muttering to himself. He put a pot of water on the stove for rice.

  Dorothy and I followed him as he began rinsing and chopping. The twin fragrances of ginger and fresh basil floated our way.

  “Craig was your previous husband?” Aunt Dorothy asked me softly.

  I nodded.

  “Do you keep in contact?” she plowed on.

  “Um, yeah,” I answered, keeping my voice as low as hers. “We’re friends, I guess you’d say.”

  “Craig’s still in love with Kate!” Wayne burst out. I took a deep breath.

  “Oh, my,” Dorothy commiserated.

  “Not that I blame him,” Wayne added with a sigh. “Poor guy.” I let my breath out. Good and kind. That was Wayne. That wasn’t Craig.

  A half hour later, the rice was done, and vegetables, herbs, spices, and marinated tofu were simmering in a combination of soy sauce, sherry, maple syrup, and hot mustard when Craig arrived. I didn’t tell Craig how many times I’d blinked since I’d hung up the phone; I didn’t get a chance.

  Craig barrelled through the doorway like a friendly rottweiler—a lean, handsome, well-dressed, and friendly rottweiler—thrusting a bouquet of roses and daisies my way.

  “Hey, Kate,” he greeted me. “Any chance of a divorce yet? I’ve got a great divorce joke. This guy walks into a bar and—”

  —And Wayne walked into the entryway, followed by my aunt.

  “Hey, Wayne,” Craig said, the enthusiasm draining from his voice. Hadn’t he heard me say “Wayne” on the phone? His puppy-dog brown eyes saddened. Then he noticed Dorothy.

  “Craig, this is my aunt, Dorothy Koffenburger,” I introduced. Then I remembered that they’d already met, at our wedding. But I doubted that Craig remembered.

  “Wow,” Craig murmured. “Now I see where Kate gets her beauty.” He didn’t remember. But he did remember how to treat an unremembered woman on short notice. He switched directions and handed Aunt Dorothy the flowers as if they’d been for her. At least he didn’t hand them to Wayne.

  “Well, Katie and I don’t share the same blood, but I’ll accept a little flattery any day,” Dorothy said. She didn’t say anything about his memory. But despite her kind words, there was a coolness in her sweet voice. “And I’ll certainly accept flowers. Though you shouldn’t have.”

  I could almost hear both men’s minds agreeing—Craig shouldn’t have.

  Aunt Dorothy put the flowers in a jar in the middle of our kitchen table, and the four of us sat down to Wayne’s lunch. It was wasted on Craig.

  “See, there’s this old guy at a retirement home,” he began through a mouthful of four-star vegetarian food. (And Craig was a vegetarian, so he should have appreciated it.) “He sits down next to this old—”

  “Maybe we should talk about Van Eisner,” I interrupted quickly, swallowing my own mouthful of unappreciated food. Aunt Dorothy may have been very young at heart, but I still didn’t think Craig’s joke was going to amuse her. And I was sure it wouldn’t amuse me to have Craig tell it in her presence.

  “Oh yeah, Van’s a genius with computers,” he said. At least he wasn’t talking through his food anymore. “And he’s always got all these women hanging all over him.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” I tried.

  “Well, he does drugs.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “I don’t know!” Craig whined, dropping his fork on the table. “I like Van. Except for the drugs, he’s a pretty cool guy. He knows all these computer jokes. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  I would. No wonder I disliked Van—guilt by joke association.

  “Do you think Van could murder a man?” Wayne asked, his tone somber.

  Craig squirmed in his chair, reminding me of Van himself, minus the drugs. “I just said I liked him,” Craig finally answered, defensively. “Do you think I’d like a murderer?”

  “I have,” I answered him seriou
sly, remembering all too well a murderer I had totally excluded from my suspect list. I shivered.

  “Well,” Craig admitted, scrunching up his eyes. “Van’s good at planning. To be a good programmer, you have to be. And as an entrepreneur, he knows how to strategize. I guess, if Van wanted to kill someone, he could figure out how to do it.” Craig frowned. “But I still don’t think Van would want to kill someone in the first place. He plays around and does drugs, but he’s not a bad guy.”

  “How about Jerry Urban?” my aunt asked gently.

  Craig looked down at his plate. “I don’t know Jerry as well as Van. We met at the Marin Business Exchange. At first, you know, I wasn’t that comfortable with him.” Craig lifted a limp wrist, and I kept my opinions about males who felt threatened by the mere presence of a gay man internal. “But the guy is funny. Can he mimic people or what? Whoo-boy! And practical jokes! He put Halloween eyeballs in the Jello at our last meeting. And I heard he wired up the speaker’s podium to speak back once.” Craig leaned over the table and laughed. “I wish I could have been there for that one.”

  Practical jokes. My stomach felt queasy for a moment. Running over Steve Summers with Wayne’s car had the feel of a practical joke—a sick and twisted practical joke.

  “Do you think Jerry has the capacity to murder?” my aunt chirped into the silence.

  Craig slumped. “I guess I really don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I don’t know what being a murderer feels like. I don’t know how to match it to the reality of these guys. I just can’t map into their domain. I’m a computer programmer, not a shrink. I’m sorry.”

  Craig and Dorothy made conversation and dug into their lunches after that. Wayne and I ate silently. And amazingly, Craig offered no more jokes. Maybe the interrogation had sobered him. He finally left the house with a longing glance over his shoulder. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

  “Bye, Kate,” he whispered finally, and ran down the stairs.

  He had pushed the guilt button in my heart once more.

  “He looks different than I remembered,” Dorothy commented at my shoulder.

  “It’s the suit,” I explained briefly. I didn’t want to talk about Craig any more.

  “And the haircut and shave,” my aunt added, then whispered, “You did the right thing, Katie. Wayne is the right man for you.”

  “And you’re the right aunt for me,” I whispered back, giving her a quick squeeze and forgiving her for liking Isaac Herrick.

  We strolled back into the kitchen and got started on the lunch dishes.

  Meanwhile, Wayne was dialing the phone in my office.

  “Not about investments,” I heard him say, then, “In half an hour?”

  Wayne joined us in the kitchen. “Made an appointment with my investment advisor, knows the Kimmochis,” Wayne told us. “Should leave soon. I’ll dry.”

  The incomplete sentences were one clue to Wayne’s state of mind. His stiff movements were another. Wayne was still upset about Craig.

  “You’re the man for me,” I whispered in his ear. “Aunt Dorothy agrees.”

  Wayne’s eyes widened. He turned to me. “And Craig will be fine,” I finished.

  He smiled cautiously. “And you think your friend Barbara’s the psychic,” was all he said, but he was all right again. I could almost see the worry roll away from his shoulders, down his back, and into the ground.

  Within ten minutes, the three of us were back in my Toyota on the way to meet Octavia Parker, Wayne’s financial advisor.

  Octavia was a woman with a straight back, a good-sized body, and sharp eyes. And ethics. So, when Wayne explained what we were doing, her back straightened even further.

  “My dear,” Dorothy offered mildly. “What you say will go no further than the three of us unless it pertains directly to the murder. And remember, lives may be at stake.”

  I kept my eyes on Octavia, resisting the urge to elbow my aunt in the ribs. Lives? She made it sound like the Titanic was about to go down.

  I suddenly realized I could have learned from my aunt because Octavia’s tight lips relaxed.

  “As long as it goes no further than his room,” she began.

  “Well, Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi is the brains of that outfit. Ted Kimmochi is too sensitive.” Octavia rolled her eyes. “He does pottery, paints, and plays the piano. And he does the grunt work for Janet. You know about the trouble they were in a few years back? Well, that was Ted’s doing, but Janet bailed her sensitive genius out of the soup.”

  “Trouble?” Wayne prodded.

  “You didn’t know?” Octavia demanded. Her face reddened. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Damn. She’d remembered the ethics part again.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Aunt Dorothy reminded her. “Our lips are sealed outside of this office.”

  “Still, it’s not up to me to say,” Octavia insisted.

  “Tell us about their personalities, then,” my aunt suggested. “Just your opinion. Could either of them kill?”

  “Just my opinion,” Octavia repeated. The words seemed to satisfy her inner ethics monitor. “Well, Ted probably couldn’t organize a murder. Not that he’s not smart enough; he’s just too self-absorbed. But Janet?” She looked over our heads, nostrils flaring. “Any woman who steals accounts from under my nose—at church, mind you—is capable of anything, in my opinion.”

  Whoa. I wasn’t sure this was exactly an unbiased opinion.

  “She took my accountant, too—Carl Russo,” Octavia went on. “At least we can share an accountant. If she didn’t already have a husband, she’d probably steal mine, too. And another thing…”

  Now that her output switch had been toggled, there was no stopping Octavia. Janet dyed her hair. Ted was coddled. He could probably find his own way if Janet didn’t take care of everything for him. Their kids were spoiled, too. For financial advisors, they spent far too much money and didn’t save enough. And on. And on. I was surprised she didn’t know about the bondage seminar.

  When Octavia’s next appointment arrived, I was almost relieved. Almost. We still hadn’t found out about the trouble the Kimmochis had been in a few years ago.

  “Did you know Carl Russo was the Kimmochis’ accountant?” I asked Wayne as soon as we were back on the sidewalk.

  “Nope,” he growled, opening the back door for Aunt Dorothy. “And he should have told the group. Let’s just go ask him about that. I’ll drive.”

  We were lucky my Toyota survived the trip. How Wayne could kick my aged car into warp speed was one of the mysteries of the universe.

  The Kimmochis’ office was in a converted Victorian in Hutton. The building had been recently painted a pale turquoise, with white and lavender accents. Janet and Ted’s office was on the first floor behind a frosted glass door.

  Wayne stomped up to the door, raised his hand to knock, and then paused.

  I walked up behind him, wondering why he’d paused; then I heard the voices.

  “Naughty, so naughty,” a voice sang ecstatically.

  “Very, very bad?” another voice asked sternly.

  “Ooh, yes, soooo bad!”

  Was Ted confessing to whatever he’d done wrong in their business?

  “Do you need to be spanked?” the stern voice demanded.

  “Oh, yes!”

  It took me that long to realize what I was hearing.

  I heard the rustle of clothing and a giggle. I couldn’t tell if the giggle was male or female.

  My aunt’s eyes were laughing, though her lips were silent. But Wayne wasn’t laughing. Wayne was embarrassed. And when Wayne got embarrassed, he got frustrated. And he was already frustrated by Ted Kimmochi’s lack of forthrightness. Forthrightness was high on Wayne’s list of virtues.

  Wayne banged his fist on the door so hard I thought the glass would break.

  And then we heard more talking.

  “No clients, right?”

  “I told you we wouldn’t be bothered.
”

  “Well, just make them go away!”

  “You make them go away.”

  After another short period of rustling, Janet appeared, swinging the door open with force.

  “We are not—” she bawled. Then she saw Wayne.

  Wayne in his gargoyle mode can be a shock. His scowl encompassed his whole face and body, his brows lowered so that his eyes were invisible. His skin was very, very red. And his body was vibrating with energy—frustrated energy.

  “Oh, Wayne,” Janet greeted him with a forced smile. She smoothed back her red hair, her freckles dark against her white skin. “What brings you up this way?”

  Wayne didn’t waste any time. He didn’t even introduce my aunt. He looked past Janet at Ted.

  “What trouble were you in a few years back?” he demanded. “Trouble that you neglected to share with the group?”

  Janet’s skin went even whiter.

  Ted took his place next to her in the doorway, disheveled but apparently calm. Maybe all his years of meditation were paying off.

  “It was very sad, but it’s over,” he answered quietly, a pretty fast save for a man who was theoretically too sensitive to organize a murder.

  I looked around the couple for whips or ropes or something, but saw only a tasteful office with computers, phone banks, and binders.

  “Come on, Ted,” Wayne pushed. “If you can’t be honest with me, who can you be honest with? What else have you been hiding?”

  “Wayne, it has nothing to do with Steve Summers’ murder, I swear,” Ted insisted, not sounding so calm anymore.

  “And it wouldn’t be any of your business, anyway,” Janet added, finally coming back to her senses.

  “Is Carl Russo your accountant?” Wayne asked next.

  “Yeah, and so what!” Janet answered. She held up a finger and shook it in Wayne’s face. “Who elected you detective? Maybe you’d just better go back to your little restaurant business and bug off.”

  Oddly enough, Wayne seemed to cool down in the face of Janet’s angry words. The gargoyle persona was melting before our eyes. Why? I wondered. True, Ted had no legal obligation to disclose his troubles or even his relationship with fellow group member Carl Russo. But to hold back that information was almost a lie in a group as intimate as Heartlink. And Carl at least had the excuse of client confidentiality for his reticence.