Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Maybe it is,” was how she answered me. And then she gave my shoulder another squeeze, and I crawled out of her bug.

  “I care about you, kiddo,” she whispered. “I really do.” With that, she rolled up the window and backed out of the driveway.

  I’d forgotten all about the red paint on my formerly redwood door. I stared at it, wondering how I was going to get it off. Then Wayne swung the object of my inspection out of my field of vision.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked softly.

  I remembered my vow of silence and threw myself into his arms.

  “Wet,” he said to the top of my head, but he held me anyway.

  “Kate?” he began when he let me go.

  “What do you think?” I asked him, moving through the open doorway and shutting the offending door behind me. “Solvents, sanding, scraping, or sandblasting?”

  Wayne opened his mouth.

  “Or maybe we could have it painted over,” I went on. “Cream might be nice. Or tree-green. Or—”

  The doorbell rang. I couldn’t believe it. It was close to eleven o’clock.

  I yanked open the door, all too afraid I was going to find a ranting Felix on my doorstep, but I came face to face with Gil Nesbit instead.

  - Fourteen -

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded once I recognized the bland all-American face of the Lotto man. Then I changed my approach. This was not a man who needed to be asked questions. This was a man who needed orders. Marching orders. “Go away,” I amended.

  But it didn’t work. Gil Nesbit slipped in the door with the finesse of Felix Byrne. I wasn’t sure how he’d ducked under the arm I’d stretched across the entrance, but he had. Once more, I wished I’d been to my tai chi class that night.

  Then Gil saw Wayne standing behind me.

  He seemed to shrink a little at the sight of my sweetie, his smile wavering.

  I turned and surveyed Wayne affectionately. A gargoyle in p.j.’s. What was so scary about that?

  “Who-is-this?” the gargoyle asked, fie-foh-fum style.

  “Gil Nesbit,” the Lotto man introduced himself cheerfully, apparently recovered from his first view of Wayne. Too bad.

  “He’s from the psychic group Barbara and I are going to,” I explained hastily, hoping Gil wasn’t here to let the cat out of the metaphysical bag.

  But Gil just straightened his back and smiled ingratiatingly. He was dressed for success, or what I imagined success looked like to the gambling set, in a white linen suit over a black shirt with black loafers and no socks. Or maybe it was just the bad-taste set.

  “So,” he began. “Psychics must win the Lotto all the time, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I answered. “I’m not a psychic.”

  That took him back for about two seconds; then he smiled a winning smile.

  “But, I’ll betcha you know the system, right?” he suggested.

  “Nope,” I replied.

  It was too bad Wayne was there. I would have liked to ask Gil a few questions of my own. Like whether he’d visited Isabelle Viseu to ask her about Lotto numbers. And just how angry he’d been with Silk for her active and insulting brushoff of his persistent questions.

  “Hey,” Gil persisted, a whine making his relentless voice just that much more unpleasant. “I gotta get me some luck, you know what I mean? I got this film company, you know, for wannabe producers—”

  “You own your own company?” Somehow, I had a hard time believing that.

  “No, no. My jerk of a sister-in-law owns it. I could do a better job, okay? I’ve got lots of ideas but she doesn’t have my vision, you know what I mean?”

  I had a feeling I did. And I felt sorry for his sister-in-law already.

  “So, it’s like I gotta have a Lotto number or something to come up with the cash to do my own thing, right?”

  “Well, good luck,” I told him. “I don’t know anything about Lotto numbers. So, why don’t you just—”

  “Hey, ever play the ponies?” Gil asked hopefully.

  “Never,” I said. “I play with cats. They’re much safer. So, anyway, Gil, it’s been nice talking with you, but it’s getting late—”

  “Hey, hey,” he stopped me, no more whine, just rabid insistence in his voice now. “You gotta know something.”

  I stepped closer to him, very close to him, actually in his face, arranging myself in a classic push hands position, back foot angled, front foot straight between his legs. I could smell smoke and garlic and mouthwash this close. I just hoped I smelled worse than he did, with all the sweating I’d done lately.

  “Leave now,” I ordered and brought my arm up in a ward-off movement that grazed his chest in our intimate position. The ward-off seemed especially appropriate. But Gil barely flinched at the invasion of his personal space.

  “Hey, I—” he began.

  I turned my hand and body until my palm was lightly touching his chest. Lightly and firmly. I could feel his body stiffen with the touch. I pushed ever so gently. Gil began to move backwards involuntarily. Pretty soon his feet caught up with his torso. I was glad. I didn’t really want him to fall over.

  “Hey, you—” he tried once more.

  I kept pushing as softly and lightly as I could, stepping toward him as quickly as he backpedaled out of my front door. Once his last black loafer disappeared, I slammed the door after him and turned back to Wayne.

  Wayne was smiling now, a big smile for Wayne, just tugging the corners of his mouth, his brow-lidded eyes unaffected. A lot of people wouldn’t have even recognized it as a smile. But I did.

  “Thought of stepping in,” he told me. “Glad I didn’t. Wouldn’t have been half so much fun.”

  “Want me to push you around a little?” I asked seductively.

  “And me, just a poor sick boy,” he replied piteously. But then he stopped smiling. “So what’s this psychic group all about, anyway?” he asked.

  “Oh,” I said, scrambling for the right words. “Just one of these weird groups Barbara’s always dragging me to.”

  Wayne groaned in sympathy.

  Little did he know. And I hoped he never would.

  Thursday, I was up and working on Jest Gifts paperwork again. I’d had enough of murder. I just hoped Barbara had too. My stack of accounts payable was even looking good to me. At least it didn’t have any blood on it. And bills were incapable of speech. I sighed in a fit of momentary bliss.

  I’d had a wonderful lunch. And more important, Wayne did too. His restaurant manager had made the trek up from La Fte l’Oie with a huge tureen of homemade chicken soup for Wayne, fresh baked bread, pastries, and even some vegetarian delicacies for me. No wonder Wayne hired this guy.

  I wasn’t feeling too good about my own hiring decisions, though, having just hung up on Eddie, Jade’s brother-in-law, the computer nerd. The person who Jade had decided should replace my friend Peg in designing my new Website. This time my sigh was not rooted in bliss but in annoyance. Eddie was quite a talker for a computer nerd. Or else I had the wrong stereotype in mind about how computer nerds were supposed to act. Because this man came on with the enthusiasm of Tony Robbins when he gave his sales pitch. And he delivered the pitch with the lung power of Pavarotti. “No,” didn’t register in the guy’s brain, no matter how many times I said it before hanging up. For all I knew, he was still talking. I wondered for a moment if he was related to Gil Nesbit, and picked up another bill.

  Five or ten bills later, my accounts payable stack wasn’t looking so good to me. I thought about the front door. I’d sand a little, then work on bills a little, I decided. I’d found the sandpaper and was working away, great globs of red staining the grit, when a hand touched my shoulder.

  As my body rose into the air, I decided I might have a new career training pole vaulters if I could just figure out how I’d propelled myself that high. No pole necessary. And my innards had jumped even higher than I had. I concentrated on landing without breaking any bones. When my fe
et touched redwood deck firma again, I whipped around and saw Barbara.

  “Jeez-Louise, kiddo,” she said, laughing. “Ever think of joining the circus? That high jump’s a real crowd-pleaser.”

  “Barbara—” I began indignantly.

  But then I saw that her old grin had returned. I was so relieved that she’d recovered from the night before that I decided not to kill her. I’d have to wait till my innards settled, anyway.

  “Thanks, Kate,” she acknowledged.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied and handed her some sandpaper. “Work,” I commanded.

  We worked together for a while, sanding in a pleasant silence, broken only by the occasional cawing of a crow, crying of a baby, or barking of a dog. A suburban meditation. The sun felt good on my shoulders as we worked. The rhythm of the sanding brought a sense of peace. Last night’s events might never have happened. I breathed in the smell of paint and redwood.

  “Is C. C. all ready for her trip today?” Barbara asked.

  “What trip?” I shot back, spitting fine redwood-and-paint residue. Rule One: Never open your mouth while sanding.

  ‘The trip to Justine’s,” she reminded me. “C. C.’s going to talk to Tibia and Femur.”

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?” I demanded, turning away from the door and away from the residue waiting to jump into my mouth.

  “Me, kid you?” Barbara’s laugh was high and tinkly.

  “Barbara, you know C. C. hates other cats,” I told her. “And who’s she gonna tell if she finds something out—?”

  “Linda,” Barbara answered. “C. C. can talk to Linda.”

  I stiffened with jealousy for a moment. Then I came back to my senses. “Barbara, you’re making me crazy. C. C. won’t talk to Femur or Tibia. C. C. won’t talk to Linda. C. C. wouldn’t talk to me if she had a little human mouth put on—”

  “You’ll never know if you don’t give her a chance,” Barbara pointed out.

  “Look, it’s Thursday,” I pointed back. “Linda’s going to be wherever she works—”

  “I already called her,” Barbara cut me off. “She’ll be at Justine’s in”—she paused to look at her watch—”in ten minutes.”

  I gave up and went inside to find the cat carrier.

  As it turned out, it was easier finding the cat carrier than finding C. C., who was as psychic as any of the members of Justine’s group.

  But Barbara finally captured her where she stood, back humped and hissing, behind a potted plant.

  It took the two of us to get C. C. into the homemade wood and wire-mesh cat carrier. And I felt guilty. It was bad enough to do this to her when she went to the vet, but doing this to her so she could talk to other psychic cats? I apologized mentally, but by the time I felt guilty enough to actually back out, the little gate was locked firmly on C. C.’s twitching tail.

  “It’ll be all right,” Barbara told C. C., and C. C. tilted her little painted face through the mesh like she might believe her. “It’ll be an adventure,” Barbara promised and C. C. slit her eyes knowingly and lay down in the cat carrier, making herself comfortable.

  Now all I had to do was explain to Wayne what we were doing.

  “Veterinarian’s,” I announced cheerfully as I walked into the bedroom.

  “Mrrmph,” Wayne answered, his eyes barely opening. Then his eyes gently closed again and he turned over, one hand tucked beneath his chin like a poster boy for angelic gargoyles.

  I left him a note.

  It was a lot different walking up the stone path to Justine’s redwood-shingled cottage carrying a cat carrier. Especially since C. C. was yowling and hissing again, psychically blind to Barbara’s blandishments now.

  Linda met us at the door, smelling of fresh baking. The twin aromas of vanilla and nutmeg clung to her like friendly spirits. I wondered if we’d get cookies today.

  “Oooh, is this C. C.?” she asked as if the cat in question was snuggling up to her instead of clawing frantically at her, only blocked from ripping her to pieces by the mesh walls of the cat carrier. C. C. could smell a veterinarian at twenty paces. And she didn’t like cookies.

  “C. C., say hello to Linda.” I introduced the two briefly as we walked inside. C. C. let out a low-throated snarl that would have scared anyone sane.

  “Ah, let the poor little thing out of that cage,” Linda suggested. Right, Linda wasn’t exactly sane. I knew that.

  I lifted the gate of the cat carrier carefully, and C. C. scooted out like she had a rocket booster for a tail. She was on top of a tall shelf within seconds, alternately hissing and sneering at her assorted admirers beyond arm’s reach. A breeze fluttered a set of white curtains. C. C. eyed the open window. I hoped she wouldn’t escape that way or I’d never get her back.

  I hopped across the room ahead of her and closed the possible exit.

  Justine strode in just as I’d bolted the window shut, her face tired. More than tired, Justine’s broad face was drawn and her brown eyes were deeply shadowed.

  “Barbara told you about Isabelle?” I guessed.

  She nodded silently, her eyes slowly scaling the shelf that C. C. topped.

  Then she smiled.

  “Cool cat,” she commented.

  Which is what C. C. stood for in the first place, in honor of the goatee and beret so artistically rendered by her black and white markings.

  I stared at Justine. Had she known that?

  But before I had a chance to ask her, Linda was calling in her feline reinforcements.

  “Tibia, Femur?” her voice caroled. “We have a new kitty for you to play with.”

  I looked up at C. C. on the shelf.

  Play? Her fur stuck out on end at the very idea.

  “Now, Tibia and Femur,” I heard Linda instructing in the next room, “we’ve brought C. C. over so you can tell her what happened to Silk, okay?”

  I heard a distant mewl of doubt.

  “Then C. C. will tell Kate and we’ll all know.” Linda paused as if listening for a moment, then went on. “Well, I can’t promise, but I’ll bet C. C. will like you. Just give her a chance.”

  It seemed to me my mother had told me the same thing as a child just before Lila Ralston had stomped my doll-house into oblivion.

  Linda came loping back into the living room, Femur and Tibia in her wake. It felt very warm suddenly, with the window shut.

  “Now, C. C.—” she began.

  There was a moment when the room seemed frozen in time, and then C. C. leapt. It was a grand leap. And then marmalade and tabby and black-and-white all were swept together into a whirling mass that blurred into one color. They might have been in a blender jar. Only this blender didn’t grind, it hissed and yelped and roared.

  Linda started forward, but Femur and Tibia disappeared before she’d even taken a step.

  C. C. stared up at us in triumph and licked a knuckle.

  I swallowed uneasily, wondering if my cat had just eaten Justine’s cats. But a flurry of yowls from the kitchen assured me that they were at least still alive.

  Justine and Linda ran to the kitchen. I didn’t think they were getting us cookies.

  I smiled down at C. C. I couldn’t help it. What a cat!

  “Huh!” Barbara snorted behind me.

  “Well, she won,” I whispered.

  “She sure as hell did,” a deep voice agreed from behind me.

  I didn’t jump onto a shelf like C. C. had, but I jumped. Justine smiled at me when I turned her way. Was sneaking up on me her little revenge for my cat’s behavior? If it was, she changed the subject quickly enough.

  “Did you know that Silk’s birth name was Polly Esther Sokoloff?” Justine asked wistfully.

  I shook my head. Then I got it. Polyester. No wonder she’d changed her name to Silk. How could her parents have done that to her?

  “She was named for her maternal and paternal grandmothers,” Justine explained before I could verbalize the question. “I don’t think they probably even thought what the nam
es meant beyond that.” Justine sighed. “Silk was cool, as cool as your cat sometimes.”

  “But Marilyn Levin drew her face as the murderer,” Barbara threw in.

  It took me a minute to make the connection with the psychic sketch artist. Was Barbara accusing Silk of her own murder?

  “It’s true, Silk had a talent for getting on folks’ nerves,” Justine admitted. “Whoever killed her probably thought she deserved it. But she didn’t. And neither did Isabelle Viseu.”

  There wasn’t a lot to say after that. Especially since Linda was still in the kitchen comforting Justine’s cats. I realized how much Linda offered in any social interaction, a yin to Justine’s yang. She was a sweet woman. I hoped she was still speaking to me.

  I turned back to C. C. It was time to take the champion home in glory. Actually, it was time to take the champion home in her cat carrier.

  Stuffing C. C. back in the carrier turned out to be surprisingly simple. In fact, she just sauntered in when the gate was opened. I suppose when you’re a queen, a cat carrier is a royal coach.

  Barbara, Justine, and I were all taking turns bowing in C. C.’s direction when Linda came back in the room. I straightened up quickly. I knew Justine had a sense of humor, but I wasn’t so sure about Linda, not where animals were concerned.

  “Femur and Tibia asked me to say goodbye to C. C.,” she informed us. “They had fun.”

  Fun? Maybe a little fight was fun for a cat. How did I know? And Linda certainly seemed to.

  “Well, C. C. enjoyed herself too,” I answered. I was pretty sure I was on solid ground there. “Femur and Tibia are all right, aren’t they?” I asked belatedly.

  Linda laughed. “Only a little embarrassed,” she whispered. Then she bent over C. C.’s carrier.

  “Well, bye-bye, kitty,” she told C. C. and waved her fingers invitingly.

  C. C. looked for a moment at those fingers out of reach beyond the mesh, then she turned her back on the veterinarian. There are some insults no one should have to bear. And Linda’s profession appeared to be one of them in C. C.’s scheme of things.

  Justine gave me a tight hug before I picked up the cat carrier. And Linda followed up with an even tighter one. Barbara and I left with no more knowledge than before. But still, I thought, smiling, I did have the best cat.