Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  Only this guy didn’t react. He just blinked and opened his mouth again.

  “But—” he began.

  The woman in neon-pink ignored him and turned again, this time toward the conservatively dressed woman standing near her. She put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders and cooed, “My old, old friend Denise. How shall we begin again, honey?”

  The conservatively dressed woman shrugged off the arm and stepped away.

  Was the woman in pink Silk Sokoloff? Before I could verbalize my question, she turned all the way around, toward me, and asked, “And just who do we have here, hmmm?”

  But I didn’t even look into her face. Because as she’d been turning, I’d begun counting. Frantically. There were twelve people in the room.

  I had once again walked into a room filled with people.

  - Two -

  I was in a room filled with people, and it was all my friend’s fault. My heart jumped up to pound in my ears. Barbara! I whipped around to glare at her. She had to have known. And sure enough, she was grinning.

  “Is this your idea of psychic shock therapy?” I demanded in a low whisper. I could feel the heat in my face as I turned to walk out the door, wondering just exactly how I’d get home, since I’d arrived in Barbara’s VW. There were always taxis, I reminded myself. And no taxi driver could drive as recklessly as Barbara did. I hoped.

  “Kate,” a soothing voice beckoned from behind me, Justine’s voice. I allowed myself to turn back. “Barbara’s told me how deeply you’ve been wounded.”

  “I, Barbara—” I began to object, but Justine had hit the problem on the head. I had been wounded, though certainly not as badly as all the dead people I’d stumbled over.

  “Perhaps if you stayed, you might learn something,” Justine continued.

  “Um, I…” was all that came out of my mouth. Was this woman a hypnotist as well as a psychic? Because something about her words made sense. Or maybe it was just her gentle tone resonating in my poor, battered little brain.

  “Honey, you’re not leaving now, are you?” a new voice demanded. Of course, the woman in pink. She threw out her chest, an easy feat for someone built as robustly as she was. “Stay awhile, have a little fun.” She winked heavily, Mae West style.

  Justine chuckled. “Silk may not be the best advertisement for our little group, but don’t let her freak you out too much.” Justine’s voice lowered to a whisper pitched just loud enough to be overheard. “She’d probably like it.”

  But I didn’t have a quick comeback for Justine. I was too busy focusing on Silk Sokoloff’s face. It was a square face with a devilish grin and heavily kohl-lined eyes under unplucked brows. This was the face of the woman who was the author and columnist of “Erotica, Et Cetera,” and, I suddenly realized, the face of the laughing woman I’d seen in my dream the previous night. It had to be. She even had the same purple-and-green-streaked hair. I felt perspiration seep out of my stunned brain onto my forehead.

  On cue, Silk began to laugh. Whether she was laughing at Justine’s words or my slack-mouthed stare, I wasn’t sure.

  “Like my outfit?” she demanded, turning like a fashion model to display her slinky neon-pink ensemble, flipping her feather boa at the end of her turn. With her body, the halter top and harem pants were impressive. But it wasn’t her body that was worrying me. It was her face.

  I turned to tell Barbara that this was the woman from my dream, but Barbara had drifted off with Linda Underwood, and I found myself staring at Justine instead. Her deep, dark eyes were concerned.

  “You okay?” she asked seriously.

  I told myself I was okay. I had to buck up. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. So what if I was in a small group of people? So what if I’d dreamt about a woman I’d never met? So what if…

  “Fine,” I said, and took a deep breath.

  “Welcome to the psychic soiree,” Silk announced in the voice of a sideshow barker, and I heard the door close behind me.

  “So, Justine, old bean, introduce me,” Silk ordered.

  Justine took my arm and steered me across the roomful of people to meet Silk.

  After we’d exchanged names, Silk looked me over and proclaimed, “Girl, you look just good enough to eat.”

  I looked behind me for a moment, not sure if she was talking to me or someone else. I’m in my forties; short, dark, and A-line; and not the type of person other people usually call “good enough to eat.” I hoped.

  But Silk was talking to me.

  She slipped an arm around my shoulder and, with her other hand, grabbed the conservatively dressed woman still hovering nearby. I could smell patchouli oil. I had a feeling the scent came from Silk, not the other woman.

  “Kate, meet my old, old friend Denise,” she purred. “Now, don’t we make a nice juicy triple? And there’s always my little sweetie pie, Zarathustra, to add to the bonfire if we need kindling.”

  “Um,” I replied, kicking myself for my loss of speech. What would Oscar Wilde have said now? Probably, Go home, you fool, my mind answered.

  Denise looked as if she’d rather kick Silk than herself as she wriggled out of Silk’s grip. Her expression was cool, but her hands were twisting together dangerously.

  And Silk’s “sweetie pie” Zarathustra crossed his arms and turned away, six feet plus of black leather and rage. He wasn’t the only one. A woman who looked about sixty, with salt-and-pepper hair curling around an oval face turned away at the same time. Was she embarrassed by Silk’s antics? Or angered by them?

  “Hi, Kate, I’m Tory Quesada,” a woman with midnight-black hair, caramel-colored skin, and a bright and sunny smile announced before I could think of anything else to say to Silk. Or wriggle away from her casual embrace. “I channel Rogerio. He’s an angel.”

  “Oh,” I said to Tory, wishing I could channel anyone with better social skills. My mouth felt dry from disuse.

  “Rogerio just loves Silk,” Tory gushed. “There are no hidden secrets in the Angelic Realm.”

  Silk look properly gratified. I slipped out from under her arm during the distraction and breathed in fresh, non-patchouli-oiled air.

  “Rogerio says humor is just a transmutation of love—”

  “Silk, you gotta help me,” a new voice interrupted. The woman who owned this voice, however, did not have a bright and sunny smile. Unlike Tory, her face was long and pinched under her styled brown hair, with remnants of chewed lipstick on her open mouth. “The spirits are after me again. They visit me as soon as I close my eyes—”

  “Artemisia, honey,” Silk whispered, her voice almost gentle. “I’ve told you, I can’t help you with your spirits. They’re yours—”

  “But see, the thing is,” Artemisia tried, “you’re so strong, Silk. You gotta help me. There must be a sacrifice. I don’t know what to do. You—”

  “I’d just be interfering with your destiny,” Silk said, cutting her off, less gently now. She turned her head away from Artemisia. So much for help.

  “Oh, wait a minute, everyone,” Tory announced. “Rogerio just spoke.” The room went quiet as Tory tilted her head. “He says everything is not as it seems, but it will all be for the best, appearances notwithstanding. He says—”

  “Tory,” Silk interrupted, her voice rough with irritation. “Rogerio can be a real conversation stopper, ya know what I mean?”

  “No, wait,” Tory persisted, throwing out her arms and tilting her head again. “He says—”

  “And not only that,” Silk continued, “he’s beginning to sound like a fortune cookie or something—”

  “Does this Rogerio dude know anything about Lotto numbers?” the all-American-looking guy cut in.

  Tory glared at the intruder.

  “Gil Nesbit,” he introduced himself briefly. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, young, with longish hair and aviator glasses over a clean, symmetrical face. But there was something twitchy about him. “Interested in the Lotto,” he explained. “Hey, gotta try, right? Gotta be somethin
g here in the land of psychics.”

  “Rogerio knows nothing about the Lotto,” Tory told him, her sunny smile gone now. “And Rogerio is not pleased with Silk either.”

  Gil turned to Artemisia next.

  “Hey, I heard you were a stockbroker, right?” he prompted her. But she only blinked her eyes at him, like a nervous cat. “Lotto and stocks, pretty close, huh? I mean, you oughta—”

  “Hey, freak,” Silk barked, reaching out for the young man, but just missing him as he stepped back. “I thought I told you to bugger off.”

  “Okay, now, Ms. Silky-Sue,” came a soothing voice from behind us. Justine to the rescue. “I think you’ve offended enough people for one afternoon.”

  I waited for Silk to argue, but she just laughed. Then she threw her arms around Justine in a bear hug.

  “I really love you, my sweet chili bean, Justine,” she purred. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Justine waited till Silk let her go to answer.

  “You’re okay, Silk,” she said softly, once she had her breath back. She glanced Linda’s way. Was Linda jealous of Silk? “But you gotta stop goofin’ on folks. Sometimes, they don’t appreciate it.”

  And with that, Justine took my hand and hauled me around to introduce me to the people I hadn’t met yet. Isabelle Viseu, the woman with the salt-and-pepper hair who’d turned away from Silk earlier, shook my hand gravely and graciously. She had a lovely oval face defined by large golden eyes rounded into an expression of sadness. I tried to recall if this was the woman that Barbara had mentioned, the one who’d lost her husband recently. But before I could remember, Justine introduced me to the man with the face of an educated weasel, whom Silk had blasted as a “narc.”

  Rich McGowan didn’t really look like a weasel, I chided myself. It was just that his face was so narrow, and his eyes were so close-set, not to mention his straggly mustache and crooked jaw. I wondered why Silk had called him a narc. His face was still white and slack-mouthed from his encounter with the woman in pink. And he was about as conversational as I was. I sniffed the air in the room. I didn’t smell any drugs, not any smokable ones anyway. Just a little incense.

  “And this is Denise Parnell,” Justine told me before I could begin to figure out the “narc” mystery. I turned as directed and saw the conservatively dressed woman that Silk kept wanting to put her arm around.

  “Gee, it’s good to meet you,” Denise said, her voice surprisingly deep and smooth. It was a voice that didn’t seem to go with the nervousness of her neat, trim body, and her feminine, Aryan features. She was dressed in a white shirt with an old-fashioned Peter Pan collar and neatly pressed gabardine trousers, clothing more unique to the day’s gathering by its conservative nature than Silk’s feather boa or Zarathustra’s leather and piercings. Her hair was arranged in a tasteful, blond pageboy that framed her girlish face perfectly.

  “I’m here to research psychics for my radio show Acceptance,” she explained quickly. The glare that she threw toward Silk told me that her “acceptance” didn’t necessarily extend that far.

  “Oh, I’ve listened to your show,” I told her, glad I finally had something to say. I didn’t add that it was hard to believe that she was behind the voice that interviewed UFO abductees and transvestites for a living. “Have you known Silk long?” I asked instead.

  “Goodness, not really,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I knew Silk in college.” She paused and added, “Silk hasn’t changed much, I’m afraid.” There was no humor in her assessment, as far as I could tell. “I’m really only here to observe Justine. I’ll be interviewing her for Acceptance soon.” She sighed.

  The sigh was contagious. My eyes slipped away, looking for someone else to play with. At least Silk had been more fun than Denise, in her own scary way. Now, Linda Underwood looked good. She was down on the floor, playing with a large tabby who’d wandered in the door. She was making a yard of wire dance. The wire was threaded with little pieces of wood and larger pieces of wood for handles. The cat was jumping at the handle at the other end of the wire from Linda’s hand. A second, marmalade cat came wandering in to join the game. I wondered if they’d mind a third, but turned my attention back to Denise politely.

  But Silk was back. “Listen,” she declared loudly. “How about a good old-fashioned orgy instead of this soiree bit? I haven’t had a good orgy in years.”

  Denise turned her head away. She wasn’t alone. Once again, Isabelle Viseu was averting her face. In fact, only Gil Nesbit looked interested in Silk’s offer.

  “God, it’s good to see you again, Denise,” Silk persisted.

  Denise didn’t respond in kind. I didn’t blame her.

  But apparently Silk did.

  “Jeez, Denise, how about a break here?” she pressed. “I’ll bet your oh-so liberal listeners would like to know just how accepting you really aren’t. God, you remind me of my mother, all priss and bitch.” Silk’s eyes seemed to float away. “I thought about her this morning. It was weird. I haven’t thought about my mother in years.”

  In that moment, Silk didn’t look the forty or so I’d pegged her for. She looked old. I wanted to reach out to her, to give her some comfort. Silk Sokoloff, of all the people in the world!

  But the newcomer bustling in the door took center stage before I could act on any ill-conceived instincts.

  “Hi, kids,” she called out, her voice thin and raspy with age. I guess she had a right to call us “kids.” She looked about eighty, with a lined, impish face under swept-back silver hair and heavy bifocals.

  “Elsa Oberg,” Silk whispered in my ear. “She is one cool old broad.”

  “Well, hot damn, y’all waited for me,” Elsa went on. “Just dropped Mr. Right off for the afternoon. What a sweet patootie.” She shook her head, her eyes glazed for a moment. “So, is he my soulmate? He may be only sixty, but he’s cute as a button. What do you kids think?”

  “Scratch the orgy,” Silk whispered in my ear. I couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that escaped my lips.

  But then Silk was advancing on Elsa, her face alight with sincere interest.

  “So, how’s sex at eighty?” she inquired. All she needed was a tape-recorder in her hand. Was everyone here doing research?

  “Hon, you just wouldn’t understand,” Elsa rasped with a wink at the rest of us. “You’re too young to even imagine this ole woman in action.”

  “So how old is everyone here?” Silk demanded of the room.

  “My age is a family secret,” Elsa replied winsomely. “Handed down for generations.” Silk laughed and turned to the rest of us, answering her own question.

  “Okay, forties: me, Denise, Justine, Linda, Barbara, Kate, right?”

  “Subtract a few years, and I’ll be glad to count myself as forty-nine,” Justine answered with a wink.

  “Oooh, me too,” Linda piped up.

  “And thirties: Tory, Artemisia, and oh yes, Rick, our resident narc, and Gil the Lotto freak.”

  “Hey,” Gil objected. “I’m only—”

  “And Isabelle, you’re about sixty, right, honey?”

  Isabelle didn’t answer her, but merely averted her face again. I wondered exactly what Silk had done to put Isabelle off. Or was it just her very being?

  “And my sweet Zarathustra, you’re too young to even imagine.” Silk put her hand on her heart and performed a mock swoon.

  Zarathustra didn’t reply either. He seemed to be too busy moving chairs around in the center of the living room. Slamming them around, actually. And I had a pretty good guess how Silk had put him off. No one wants to be made fun of, especially at seventeen.

  “So,” Silk concluded. “Does Elsa have the best sex life of us all? Does it get better and better?”

  “You’ll just have to guess, young lady,” Elsa answered, her thin, rasping voice full of good humor. “Or wait, I suppose. Maybe even you could get a good sex life.”

  Laughter filled the room. Even Isabelle smiled.

  Before
the laughter had even died away, however, Justine chose to change the tone of the event. She clapped her hands and announced that we were going to do a little exercise in intuition. I wondered about her timing. Why stop when we were finally having fun? But maybe it was simply the first chance she’d had to catch everyone in relative harmony.

  “We’ll each sit down, put on a mask, and try to connect with other members of the group,” she explained quietly. She pointed at the tight circle of chairs that Zarathustra was arranging, and then pulled a black sleeping mask from a wicker basket. “I’ve cut a whole at the sixth chakra in each mask. That way each of you will be more able to receive impressions—”

  “What’s a ‘chakra’?” Gil interrupted.

  “A chakra’s a center of spiritual energy in the human body.”

  Justine continued, “Remember, everyone’s impressions are different. You may see something, or feel something, or hear a word, or maybe a sound. A symbol may come to mind. Or a sequence of dreamlike images.”

  “Who are we trying to connect with?” asked Gil, obviously confused. He didn’t even mention the word “Lotto.”

  “Whoever,” Justine answered easily. “I’ll call out names periodically for those who’d like guidance, and you might want to concentrate on the named person. But it’s just an exercise. Let it lead where it will.” She paused and looked around the group. Linda and Zarathustra headed for the door to an adjoining room. Well, at least they knew where they were going.

  “Linda and Zarathustra won’t be joining us today, and Denise will be observing,” Justine added.

  On cue, Denise sat down across the room from the circle of chairs, pulling out a notebook and pen from her purse.

  “But the rest of you can take your seats.” Now Justine grinned. “And remember, this is free. Let yourself relax.”

  “Once she starts her school, she’ll be charging,” Silk grumbled, pulling out a chair and claiming her seat first.

  “You bet I will,” Justine agreed, her grin widening.

  And then our leader sat down in a chair across from Silk, and everyone else piled in, Tory next to Justine and Artemisia on Justine’s other side. Gil shrugged and sat next to Artemisia. Rich took his place next, then Elsa and Isabelle, and finally Barbara and myself. The chairs were so tightly packed, I had to pull mine out and pull it back in again behind me. Already, the circle of chairs had begun to feel claustrophobic. There was an empty seat on either side of Silk. I wondered if no one wanted to sit next to Silk in the dark. I certainly wouldn’t want to.