A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Kate?” Jade asked. “Are you still there?”

  From the processing chip somewhere in my mind, a message was sent that I couldn’t talk with my teeth clamped shut. I unclamped them slowly. A pain shot through my jaw as I did.

  “How itty-bitty?” I finally managed.

  “None of the merchandise,” Jade assured me. “Whatever jackass set the fire last night just burned packing boxes—”

  “Someone set it?”

  “That’s what the fire guy said. I called the fire station this morning when I saw the packing room. Yuck. What a mess—”

  “Do you have any idea who set it?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Jade told me. “I dunno who. The fire guy said it coulda been anyone. Teenagers, maybe.”

  Or a murderer, I thought. No. I shook my head and refused that vista of paranoia.

  “I’ll call in an order for boxes—” I began.

  “Hey, I’ll do that, Kate,” Jade insisted. “I’m just glad you’re not, like, all hysterical or something. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thanks, Jade,” I whispered, and I meant it. Jade was a good warehouse woman. I’d have given her another raise if it weren’t for the fact that she already made more money than I did. Maybe I’d give her another raise anyway.

  Jade and I discussed the coming week’s business, and then I calmly hung up the phone.

  I stood, staring at the floor, wondering what it would take to stop whoever had started this fire from starting another one.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and rocketed into the air. The minute I did, my mind told me that the hand belonged to Wayne, and that I had to stop jumping every time he snuck up on me. Still, I turned as soon as my feet hit the ground again just to make sure I was right. I was.

  “Sorry,” he offered. “Maybe I should wear a bell around my neck.”

  “Maybe you should learn to walk like other people,” I suggested impatiently. “Clomp, clomp, clomp, all right? Practice!”

  Wayne stepped away from me, his bare feet slapping the carpet in a way that had to be painful to the soles of his feet.

  “Is that any—” he began.

  The phone rang, interrupting whatever he had to say. I was already smiling—until I picked up the phone.

  Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi was on the other end of the line. And she was angry. I plopped down in my comfy chair, ready to have Janet eat a good portion of my morning. C. C. plopped down in my lap as if she’d just materialized on the planet. Luckily, her claws were sheathed for the moment. Then she began to purr. Unfortunately, Janet wasn’t purring.

  “I am too a good mother!” she screamed at me.

  “I’m sure you are,” I replied, wondering if I’d ever have time to change out of my pajamas.

  “Shower?” Wayne whispered, pointing at himself.

  I nodded. I’d miss being in it with him, but I had other matters to tend to.

  “I don’t care what your Aunt Dorothy says—”

  “Aunt Dorothy?”

  “Yes, your deranged aunt has some kind of idea that Steve Summers was molesting my girls. She called me five minutes ago.”

  I closed my eyes and listened to my stomach practice knotting itself—internal macramé.

  “What kind of mother would I be to let anyone molest my children?” Janet bulldozed on. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice? Just because I work hard doesn’t mean that I’m not watching them. Working mothers are the brunt of the worst kind of sexist nonsense. I’m used to that. But molestation!” Her voice raised an octave on the last word.

  “Did my aunt actually say you did anything wrong?” I demanded.

  “No, but that’s not the point. That she could even believe such a thing at all is enough of an insult.”

  “Janet, I doubt that she believes it. It was probably just a theory.” I hoped I wasn’t lying. “I’ll talk to her,” I promised.

  “You do that!” Janet ordered and hung up.

  “We aren’t investigating anymore,” I said to the dial tone.

  And then, I just sat in my comfy chair, thinking of pleasant places. It’s never too late to try astral projection.

  Wayne showed up minutes later, showered, shaved, and smelling good. His step was good and heavy, too.

  “Breakfast?” he offered.

  I didn’t need any arm-twisting. He pulled a homemade coffee cake from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave, apologizing for of its lack of freshness. I just sat at the kitchen table and smiled as he threw a thousand and one ingredients in the blender for a vegan smoothie and then bent down to feed C. C. her Fancy Feast. Finally, he made me a pot of peach tea. I had just drunk the last of my smoothie and was reaching for the rest of my coffee cake when the doorbell rang. I looked down. Yup, I was still in my pajamas.

  And suddenly, I remembered our second ground rule: No suspects in the house. Wayne snuck to my office window and peeked out.

  “Helen Herrick,” he whispered.

  “Oh Wayne, we can’t just leave Helen standing there,” I insisted.

  “She’s a suspect,” he insisted back, crossing his arms.

  “How about the deck?” I tried.

  He opened his mouth to object, then seemed to think better of it.

  “Okay, the deck, but only because there are two of us,” he conceded.

  Wayne and I walked out on the deck to greet Helen. I just hoped none of the neighbors were seeing me in my pajamas, cute as they were, with their large, turquoise cat paw prints. The pajamas were a gift. I swear.

  “I’ve been to see Wooster,” Helen started out. As far as I could tell she hadn’t even noticed my pajamas or our use of the deck as the venue for our discussion. “Wooster is off his rocker.”

  Wayne and I both just nodded.

  “I want justice,”

  “Helen, you’ll get justice,” Wayne said soothingly. “Remember, Wooster isn’t the entire Cortadura Police Department.

  “There’s Sergeant Marge,” I threw in.

  “I don’t care!” she cried out. “I want justice now.”

  “Helen, we’re not investigating anymore,” Wayne announced.

  I shrank beside him. I wished he hadn’t said it. I wanted to take Helen in my arms and promise that we’d find her husband’s murderer. But I didn’t.

  Helen gave us each a look that could have fried tofu…and burned it to ash. Then she turned and stomped down the stairs without another word.

  “Oh, dear,” was all I could say.

  Wayne escorted me back inside and locked the door behind us. The phone started ringing the minute the door was locked. I picked it up automatically.

  “Ms. Jasper, this is Mike Russo,” a hesitant voice announced.

  “Hi there, Mike,” I tried.

  “It’s my dad. He’s crying. I don’t know why. Do you think Wayne could, like, talk to him?”

  I turned to Wayne and pointed at the phone.

  “This one’s yours,” I informed him and handed him the receiver.

  I listened for a few moments as Wayne talked to Mike. Then there was a short silence, and his voice tone changed. He was talking to Carl.

  Finally, I headed down the hallway to take my shower. I made it quick, no matter how good the hot water felt on my tense muscles. Then I brushed my teeth, fussed with my hair, and changed into a T-shirt and Chi-Pants. I was back in my office within fifteen minutes.

  Wayne was standing by the phone, a scowl on his face.

  “Bad?” I asked.

  “Worse,” he replied. “Carl’s a good man. But he’s a rigid man. These deaths have really thrown him. He can’t understand how it could happen. He’s flailing, worried about his kid, worried about himself, worried about the group.”

  “You can’t blame him,” I said.

  Wayne nodded. “Told him we weren’t investigating anymore. That really upset him.”

  Wayne looked me in the eye.

  “Kate, we’ve done all we can, right?”

  “
I think so.”

  “If there was something else we could do, I’d try. But it’s useless. I’m out of ideas. You got any?”

  I shook my head slowly. But even as I did, a picture of Barbara formed in my mind. I wondered what it was I thought Barbara could do for me. Maybe I just needed to talk to a friend. I promised myself that I would give her a call.

  Wayne sighed. “Going to work,” he told me. “Have to do menus for the week, and see what’s been going on while I was gone.”

  I nodded, then remembered our transportation dilemma.

  “Wait a minute,” I stopped him. “You don’t even have a car, and I’ve got tai chi practice tonight.”

  “Not to worry,” he assured me. “My manager is on his way to pick me up.” He paused, and his scowl deepened. “But I don’t want you here alone, Kate.”

  “Me, neither,” I agreed, feeling cold already at the thought of Wayne’s departure. This time, I wasn’t arguing. Wayne wasn’t speaking from male arrogance; he was just being practical under the circumstances. I would be a sitting duck without him.

  “Dorothy,” I said. “I’ll call my Aunt Dorothy.”

  And I wasn’t kidding. I was on the phone to my aunt before Wayne and his manager had stuffed themselves into his manager’s car and driven off at a sedate speed.

  “Of course, Katie,” my aunt told me. “I’ll be over as soon as I call Helen back. Just leave a key under the mat for me if you’re busy, or leave the door unlocked. And I’ll ring the doorbell to let you know I’m there.” She paused. “Helen says you’ve stopped investigating.”

  Guiltily, I explained about Van’s attack and the threatening letters.

  “Oh, Katie,” she murmured. “Of course, you must stop.”

  When I hung up the phone, I had the feeling that everything would be all right. Aunt Dorothy was coming. I reminisced about how she’d let me make cookies and eat the cookie dough as a child, and my rigid body relaxed. Then I remembered that I had one trick left up my sleeve: I’d never called the DRUGLAW people to find out just how much trouble Van Eisner would be in if the cops did find his drugs. There was still research that I could do without talking to suspects. I smacked my fist into my palm and picked up the Yellow Pages.

  I knew a lot more about 1-900-DRUGLAW after scouring their ad. For a set fee per minute, a caller could not only speak to a lawyer, but also to a psychologist or a general counselor about their drug problems. It was a lot cheaper than finding a lawyer, driving there, and asking about Van Eisner, especially since I was under house arrest. I shut the phone book, went outside and stuck a house key under the doormat, and dialed 1-900-DRUGLAW.

  I got their law division and gave them my credit card number, and then the meter was running.

  “Um,” I began, wishing I’d written out my questions beforehand. It would have been a lot cheaper. “I have a friend with a drug problem.”

  “Right, a friend,” the voice on the other end of the line replied, a sneer evident in its tone. Jeez, you’d think a professional wouldn’t be so judgmental.

  “He has a former conviction for drug use, and he’s afraid the police will find the drugs he’s currently using in his house. What kind of trouble would he be in then?”

  “Depends on the nature of his prior conviction.”

  “Um,” I said again.

  “Never mind,” the voice told me. “Whatever the nature of his prior conviction, your friend could be in big trouble.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, if I were you, I would call counseling and get a recommendation for a rehabilitation center.”

  “He won’t do that—” I began.

  “Let’s forget your friend for a moment. You have a problem. You need help. Let us help you.”

  “No, really—” I objected.

  “We hear it all the time, lady. Now, listen…”

  Me, Kate Jasper, with a drug problem? I don’t even drink coffee! Huh! I smashed the receiver into its cradle. Then I hoped I hadn’t just goofed up my new telephone system. So much for my last investigative ace in the hole.

  I sat down at my desk to do some work for Jest Gifts, trying not to think of murder or burning warehouses. But I couldn’t concentrate. It was time to call Barbara.

  I went to my bedroom. For this phone call, I wanted to lie down. I only wished I’d been lying down for the last one. I pulled the extension as far as it would reach and lay down backward on the mattress that served as our bed.

  I punched in the first digit of Barbara’s phone number. But a mechanical voice stopped me before I could go any further.

  “Someone is on the other line,” my new phone system told me.

  - Twenty-Three -

  I dropped the phone and got up off the bed, my heart racing. Who was on the other phone receiver?

  I opened the bedroom door and looked out into the hallway, wondering if Wayne had come home already. Maybe he’d forgotten something. Maybe—

  “Wayne?” I whispered and walked down the hall toward his home office.

  There was no answer. I told myself to calm down and wriggled my shoulders as if to pull back the hair that was rising on my neck.

  There were only three phones on that line in the house: one in my office, one in Wayne’s office, and one in the bedroom. It had to be Wayne on the line. Or maybe Aunt Dorothy? Could she have walked in and borrowed the phone in my office? No. I shook my head, my aunt wouldn’t be that rude. It had to be Wayne.

  “Wayne?” I tried again, louder than a whisper this time. What if he just hadn’t heard me before?

  But all I heard was silence. No, not silence, I realized suddenly. Somewhere behind me, something moved. I heard a footstep—a soft one, but a footstep nonetheless. I stopped my forward movement and listened. Someone was breathing behind me.

  I centered myself and turned around slowly, raising my arms in a tai chi ward-off position.

  My senses hadn’t deceived me. That someone who had stepped and breathed was down the hall, only a few yards from me. Someone in chinos, a loose sweater, dark glasses, and with a scarf wrapped around their face. Someone with a gun in their hand, pointed in my direction.

  So much for tai chi. Even with a kick, I couldn’t reach that gun. I considered running toward it, then dismissed the idea. This wasn’t a movie; I didn’t want to feel what that gun could do to me.

  Slowly, the hand that wasn’t holding the gun unwrapped the scarf and shoved it in a pocket. Laura Summers’ face emerged.

  Laura Summers? My mind refused to believe it. Logic told me the only reason Laura Summers would be pointing a gun at me was if she was the murderer. And—

  “But you loved Steve,” I mumbled, dazed.

  “Maybe,” Laura replied, her deep, quiet voice as soothing as usual. She removed her glasses and tucked them in another pocket. She had come well-equipped. “You shouldn’t have left your key under your doormat,” she informed me. “You aren’t careful enough with your keys.”

  I stood, gazing at Laura. She was so tall and broad; I could imagine how she could disguise herself so no one could be sure if they’d seen a man or a woman. I saw her pert, earnest face with shimmering clarity now. No wonder she’d had to wear dark glasses and a scarf—evil didn’t show on that face. It wasn’t even showing now. But I could smell the evil, acrid and angry, burning. All my senses seemed heightened. I felt something that might have been exhilaration, all the while knowing I should be afraid. But I was talking to the murderer. She might tell me everything. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t kill me.

  “Why?” I asked, not stalling for time but genuinely curious.

  “You know!” Laura hissed, her face almost the same as usual, except that now her eyes were bright with hatred.

  “No,” I told her in all sincerity. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t try to fool me,” she articulated slowly. “You and Wayne. You couldn’t give it up. You must have put together all the pieces by now. Steve was going to write an article about me.”
r />   “And?” I prodded. I had to know.

  “I’m dyslexic,” she rapped out, her gun hand dancing in frustration. “How do you think a dyslexic person can take the state bar exam to become an attorney?”

  It was interesting puzzle; I ran it through my brain. The answer had to be that a dyslexic person couldn’t take the bar exam. But Laura had been a lawyer before she became a politician.

  Laura took a step closer to me. My pulse took a step, too, but she still wasn’t close enough for me to disable her gun hand.

  “I took your phone off the hook,” Laura whispered, and then she smiled, a smile that would have bought my vote under other circumstances, but that chilled me to the bone under these. I was no longer exhilarated by the prospect of knowing why. I just wanted to live.

  “No one can call,” she told me. The smile left her face. “You paid no attention to my notes. You didn’t care when I tried to run Wayne over, or when I burned your warehouse. What did you think I would do next?”

  I didn’t want to answer that question because the answer was obvious: Kill. Kill me. Kill Wayne.

  “We stopped investigating,” I said.

  “You what?” she demanded, her head rearing back.

  “Wayne and I decided to stop investigating. I guess we didn’t tell you that.”

  “Well, you’ll both have your chance,” she said. She looked around suddenly, as if remembering something. “Where is Wayne?” she asked abruptly.

  “Wayne isn’t here. He’s at work.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Of course you’d say that, to protect him.”

  “No,” I insisted. “He really isn’t here. You can search the house if you want to.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she snapped impatiently. “I’ll just take care of him later.”

  “You don’t have to,” I told her, working to keep my voice steady. “He doesn’t know any more than I did. Neither of us suspected you—”

  “Ha!” she cut in. At least she wasn’t pointing the gun at me now. She held it at her side as she spoke. “When our son was conceived, I told Steve I was dyslexic. I was worried about the genetic factor. Steve was, of course, thrilled. He marveled that I had overcome such odds, done so much despite my disability, blah-blah-blahdee-blah, ad nauseam. He wanted to write his story then, as an inspirational piece. He never did think about the implications. How did he think I took the state bar exam? I talked him out of the story, then, for my baby’s sake. I didn’t want my child worrying that he might be dyslexic. And he wasn’t. My son never realized that I was, either.”