I slunk in casually, stopping to pat a woven basket and a goddess gourd as I planned my interrogation.
Bonnie strode up to me, a smile on her porcelain face, her auburn hair streaming behind her. Had she recognized me yet?
“Kate,” she greeted me pleasantly.
Casual, I reminded myself.
“It’s been ages,” she went on. “It’s so good to see you. Just because Craig—”
“Hah!” I exploded. Oops. That wasn’t as casual as I’d planned.
Bonnie’s green eyes flickered in her pale face. Was that an admission of guilt? Or a sign of confusion?
“Did you send me the letter?” I demanded, casualness forgotten.
“The letter?” she said blankly, tilting her head.
It was confusion all right. And hurt. I could see the hurt in her body language now. As well as in her eyes. And no wonder. How many people come into your store to yell at you for letters you didn’t write?
“So, Bonnie,” I twittered. “How are things?”
“Huh?” she murmured, still flailing.
Eventually, I bought the goddess gourd. Barbara would love it.
It wasn’t until I was riding home that I realized that if Bonnie hadn’t sent me the letter, then it had to be someone else. And it wasn’t until I was walking into my own house that I realized that presentation was everything. I would give Barbara her goddess gourd by bonking her on the head with it. Craig indeed!
But by the time I looked in on Wayne and ate one of the burritos I’d picked up on the way home, I was lost in the pleasure of gag-gift designing and had forgotten Barbara, head-bonking, menacing letters, and murder as I sketched the new dental floss earrings I’d thought up for dental hygienists. I was tired of the Internet. And dental floss brought out the artist in me. I ran my pencil blissfully along a fresh piece of paper, imagining colors. This was why I was in gag gifts. This was—
The doorbell rang and my pencil slid across the paper, leaving unauthorized tracks.
I stomped to the door, ready to yell. I should have had my goddess gourd in my hand.
Because it was, of course, Barbara Chu who’d rung my doorbell, smiling as serenely as ever.
“I just called Tory Quesada,” she told me.
“So,” I replied sullenly, crossing my arms. I wasn’t about to smile.
“I never said exactly who it was that sent you the letter,” Barbara offered. “I just said it had to do with Craig.”
I went back to my desk and got the goddess gourd.
Barbara met me halfway back to the door, her arms wide open. It’s harder to hit someone who has their arms wide open.
“Oh, Kate,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
I sighed and handed her the gourd…the easy way. Easy for her, anyway. My arm muscles were still twitching with the urge to raise it into head-bonking range.
“You’re such a good friend, kiddo,” she told me and hugged me tight.
I don’t know about the friend part, but sucker? Uh-huh. I was definitely that. We were in my Toyota driving to Tory’s within minutes.
“Listen, kiddo,” Barbara lectured as I headed into downtown Sausalito. “I’ve watched Tory go from metaphysical passion to metaphysical passion for years.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Last year it was Wicca. It was healing crystals before that, and—”
“And now Tory’s channeling Rogerio,” I finished for Barbara. I liked finishing her sentences once in a while.
“Yeah,” Barbara said, not missing a beat. “Rogerio’s a real attention-getter.”
“Is that why Tory ‘channels’ him, then?” I asked, turning Barbara’s way. “For attention?”
“There’s a pedestrian in the crosswalk, Kate,” Barbara informed me.
I slammed on my breaks. The woman in the crosswalk gave me the finger. Barbara’s driving habits were catching!
Tory’s house was in the hills above Sausalito proper. And it was an impressive house: two stories of forties-style white stucco with intricate mauve and purple trim and a well-groomed garden behind neatly pruned hedges.
“What does Tory do for a living?” I asked Barbara as I found a space and banked my wheels on the incline. The richer the homeowner, the steeper the hill.
“She’s a bank teller,” Barbara said and frowned suddenly.
“Do you get a house like this on a bank teller’s salary?” I asked.
“Not unless you’re making a lot of withdrawals,” she said.
“And what’s she doing home on a workday, anyway?” I muttered to myself, pushing my car door open with respect. They tend to slap back on hills like Tory’s.
But there’s always the possibility of a family inheritance, or a well-paid divorce, I reminded myself as Tory greeted us at the intricately carved double doors with a squeal of delight.
“Kate, Barbara,” she chirped and hugged us both as if we were family.
As we entered her house, I wished we were family. The designer-perfect interior spoke as loudly of money as Rogerio apparently did in Tory’s ear. And it smelled of incense. Subtle, expensive incense. I wondered if someone was making designer incense these days. The spacious living room was lined with custom-made cabinets for Tory’s smaller crystals and ornate carved stands for the larger ones. Barbara eyed a crystal ball that must have been two feet across. Coveting thy neighbor’s crystal ball. I could see it in her eyes. Of course, this ball wasn’t just glass. Even I could see the myriad crystal facets glinting and sending shafts of light into the room from beneath its smooth exterior. It could have been alive.
“Beautiful collection,” Barbara commented. “Where—”
“Oh, wait a moment,” Tory cut her off, closing her eyes. She put a palm to her forehead. “Rogerio’s speaking.”
We waited as she leaned her head to the side and listened. Barbara’s usually serene features tightened slightly.
“Rogerio says he greets you and welcomes you to this house and its Angelic Realms,” Tory finally announced. She opened her eyes, a pleased smile on her face.
“Ask him if he knows who killed Silk Sokoloff,” I demanded. I figured we might as well get it over with. I had a feeling that otherwise we could be at this woman’s mercy for a long time.
Tory closed her eyes and tilted her head again.
“Rogerio doesn’t know who killed Silk,” she finally told us, with a cheery smile. “Silk doesn’t know who killed Silk. She was caught from behind. But Rogerio wants you to know that Silk has been transformed and is profoundly happy now.”
I nodded. But I wasn’t profoundly happy. As far as I was concerned, there was no reason to even sit down. It was too warm in this room. And even though I could hear birds and dogs outside, it still seemed too quiet, too isolated, too clean here. No piles of magazines, no books, no messy animals. No wonder Tory kept Rogerio around. Someone had to keep her company. I decided Barbara and I could study Tory’s crystals and then leave. But my friend had other ideas.
Barbara took her place on a long, rosewood settee upholstered in purple silk. Then she began to ask Tory questions. I settled onto a chair of lavender velvet, hoping I wouldn’t soil its pristine surface as Barbara probed. What had Tory seen? What did Tory think? What did Rogerio think? But Tory’s observations were mostly of her own feelings. Her exquisitely intense and attuned feelings. She giggled and answered Barbara, but divulged nothing of importance except that she had a secret lover. This last piece of irrelevance came in a whisper.
And finally, even Barbara gave up. She stood, with a stiff smile on her face, and thanked Tory and Rogerio for their help before leaving with one last covetous glance at the crystal ball.
“So, who’s her secret lover?” I asked Barbara on the way back home.
“Tory’s secret lover is a fig neutron of her radioactive imagination,” she replied impatiently. “Just like Rogerio.”
“But Tory’s money isn’t,” I reminded Barbara.
We drove the rest
of the way back in silence.
Once I was home again, I checked in with Wayne and made him a little soup (two cans plus), adding basil and freshly ground pepper to the contents of the cans, under his expert direction. And then a little white wine, a touch of diced shallot, and about ten more ingredients from the spice cabinet. That and the burrito I’d brought him made up his meal. I had a feeling this was probably his idea of culinary prison, but he assured me everything was great, wonderful, delicious. Still lying, I was sure. But his lies earned him another kiss that I hoped would go further as soon as his energy reserves were back up and working.
When Wayne slid into bed again, I joined him and leaned against the pillows companionably, holding Silk Sokoloff’s The Bisexual Weight Loss Plan. I skimmed through the first three chapters of the novel quickly. I didn’t learn how to lose weight, but I did learn more than I probably needed to know about alternative sex-styles. Alternative sex-styles a la Larry Flynt. That is, if Hustler publisher Larry Flynt had been a bisexual woman. Silk Sokoloff had been out there, way out there. The chapters were certainly detailed enough, but still confusing. I gnawed my lower lip and glanced over at Wayne. Maybe he could figure out what—
When the doorbell rang, I dropped the book and bit my lip at the same time. I ran to the door, hoping the local Censorship Board wasn’t waiting for me.
But it was Barbara waiting for me. I was feeling like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Bell, Barbara, disaster.
“Kate, I got Lieutenant Kettering to use a psychic sketch artist,” she enthused. “Isn’t that cool? Her name’s Marilyn Levin and they’re going to meet us at her house.”
“Us?” I tried, just for the exercise. And then we went to meet Marilyn Levin.
Marilyn was an energetic woman with dark curly hair bursting from her head that didn’t seem to match the dark circles under her eyes. Her house was filled with art and dogs and the smell of cigarettes.
“I’m sensitive,” she told us without further ado, once we’d settled into her kitchen. I guessed that she meant psychically sensitive, not about-to-burst-into-tears sensitive, but then there were those circles under her eyes.
Kettering was more enthusiastic than ever. “Marilyn’s worked with police departments before,” he assured us. “Leading-edge stuff, you know? She can see the perp and draw him.” He paused. “Or her,” he added fairly.
Barbara smiled, and the three of them chattered about possible procedures. Finally, it was decided that Barbara and I would pull the memory of the day and its happenings out of the psychic ether into our joint minds, and then Marilyn would attempt to draw Silk Sokoloff’s murderer. It seemed simple enough. Once all was understood, Barbara, Kettering, and I each took a seat at Marilyn’s kitchen table.
Then Marilyn sat down ceremonially in front of a large sketch pad.
“I want you to bring back that day,” she ordered. “In all its fullness.”
Barbara and I closed our eyes and remembered as Marilyn’s pen scritch-scratched across the paper. Once again, I reviewed the people who’d been at Justine’s that malignant day. I concentrated on each of them, one by one, hoping to give Marilyn her face. Justine, Zarathustra, Linda, Tory, Gil, Denise, Artemisia, Isabelle, Elsa, and Rich. Then I was in the circle of chairs again, seeing Silk’s laughing face, hearing the cats yowl, and adjusting my eyes…to Silk’s dead body.
“It’s done,” Marilyn announced in only a few minutes.
We opened our eyes eagerly, hopefully.
Marilyn turned her sketch pad in our direction.
“Do you recognize this person?” she asked.
I recognized her instantly.
Marilyn had drawn a picture-perfect portrait of Silk Sokoloff.
- Ten -
Silk Sokoloff?
“But you drew…the victim…” Kettering’s disappointment fluttered out of his mouth into the still air and dropped. He stood up, grabbed a stack of books to his chest, and staggered out of Marilyn Levin’s kitchen like an accident victim.
Barbara and I at least said our goodbyes before we left the psychic sketch artist.
“Maybe Silk was a victim of her own behavior on some level,” Barbara mused as I pulled the Toyota away from Marilyn Levin’s home.
“So Silk was killed by a karmic cat toy?” I shot back.
“Oh, Kate,” Barbara admonished. “Ye of little faith—”
“Faith!” I objected.
“The woman did draw Silk Sokoloff,” Barbara reminded me. “She tuned into the face that was probably most prominent in our thoughts.”
I swallowed guiltily. I had thought of Silk’s face, it was true. On the other hand, Marilyn might have seen a picture of Silk Sokoloff on the jacket of one of her books. Or in the paper, for that matter.
“And we’re still no further than we were,” I added. I figured Barbara had already caught the gist of my previous thoughts.
We were still arguing when Barbara followed me into my living room and gracefully lowered herself into one of the swinging chairs. I plopped into the one across from her.
“Jeez-Louise, kiddo. I’m just saying it might be a bona fide clue,” Barbara cajoled. “Maybe the picture was to tell us that Silk’s own behavior drew the murder to her. So we should be asking ourselves—”
“What murder?” Wayne growled.
I was lucky I was sitting down or I might have fallen down. As it was, my heart astrally projected itself about three feet above my body and then dropped back with a thud. How did that man walk so quietly?
“A movie,” I said at the same as time Barbara supplied, “A novel.”
“Movie adaptation,” I explained. “Great story.”
Wayne didn’t smile. He stood, wavering a little in his p.j.’s, like a pine tree in a strong wind.
“Sit down,” I ordered. He was still so weak, he could barely stand. And here I was keeping secrets. But that was the whole point, the other part of me argued. Not to worry him while he was sick. But—
Barbara must have heard the inner struggle. She stood suddenly and said, “See you later, kiddo.”
I couldn’t blame her. I’d shut out my internal bickering if I could, too.
“Kate,” Wayne rumbled as Barbara roared away in her Volkswagen. “What’s going on?”
His face was serious. No teasing. No jokes. Just concern. With a pinch of barely repressed anger.
“I love you,” I told him hopefully.
“And?” he prompted.
“And…I’ve got to get the mail,” I improvised. “Why don’t you go back to bed, and I’ll meet you there?”
Wayne sighed deep and long, an eight on a scale of one to ten, I decided. But he eventually padded back down the hall to the bedroom. And I went back outside, and walked down the gravel driveway to the mailbox. It was warm outside, with a breeze that was just strong enough to blow some leaves from the trees. I enjoyed my short walk, inhaling the scent of my neighbors’ uneaten roses (they used barbed wire to imprison them), feeling the sun’s heat on my shoulders, and ignoring the lessening twinges of guilt.
I really did need to get the mail, I told myself when I opened the box and scooped out an armful of bills, catalogs and the usual assortment of postal detritus. Then I noticed a letter wedged in between a business seminar brochure and a bank statement. The envelope looked familiar. Mail deja vu?
I hurried back into the house and sat at my desk to go through the stack in my hands. I took a little breath before opening the letter. It didn’t help. The letter wasn’t identical to the previous day’s missive. It was worse.
“GET OUT OF HIS LIFE OR ELSE!” this one read. Same bold, block print. Different words.
But the general message seemed to be consistent, that is to say, confusing.
What man was I mixed up with besides Wayne? Assuming that Wayne was man number one from the earlier letter.
I called Barbara on her car phone again and read her the new message to the muted symphony of angry traffic sounds.
“It’s Craig
’s honeybun,” she told me.
“Barbara!” I screamed into the phone. “I talked to Bonnie. She doesn’t know anything about the letter.” Or else, Bonnie was a very good actor. That was a spooky thought.
“What does Bonnie look like?” Barbara asked.
“Huh?” I said, still wondering if Bonnie had been putting on an act that would require a degree in social pathology.
Barbara repeated her question.
“Long red hair, gorgeous white skin, green eyes,” I told her.
“Wrong woman,” Barbara said.
“What do you mean, wrong woman?” I ranted. “She was—”
“Kate,” Wayne called out from the bedroom.
“See you later, kiddo,” Barbara said obligingly.
A preemptive strike seemed in order. I rushed down the hall, into the bedroom, and flung myself on top of Wayne’s outstretched body before he had a chance to ask any more questions. And to make absolutely sure he couldn’t interrogate me, I glued my lips to his and kept them there. The method worked too well. I was lightheaded within minutes from the kiss. I would have told Wayne anything. But luckily, he didn’t ask. He was too busy flexing his atrophied hands with complex clothing removal and handling exercises. Exercise is important for the bedridden, I concluded twenty minutes later. It is truly amazing what a man who can barely walk can do lying down. Truly.
Wednesday, I was back to work on my tower of Jest Gifts paperwork. No design work for me today. A gag-gift business, like any other business, generates more paperwork than cash. More paperwork than artistic expression. More paperwork than—
My phone rang.
“Barbara?” I answered it, omnisciently. I wanted to do it to her just once. Only, of course, Barbara wasn’t on the phone this once. It was my warehousewoman, Jade.
“I’m not Barbara,” she corrected me. “It’s me, Kate.”
Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 10
