Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “You threw the paint on my door?” I stopped her. I just hoped she was good at sanding.

  “Well, yeah,” she admitted. “See, all Craig ever does is talk about you.” She raised her voice, mimicking him. “‘Kate can do this. Kate can do that.’” I guess I got a little agitated. I even brought my spray paint tonight to write something. But I won’t use it, I promise.”

  “Yeah, I guess you won’t,” I agreed and dropped the arm I’d held around her neck. Then I released her arm from behind her back, but kept it grasped in my hand, just in case, and used it to guide her toward my paint-splattered, sawdust-strewn front door. She followed my lead without any resistance.

  “I guess I made a little mess,” she murmured when we reached the door.

  I nudged the sander out of the way and guided her into the living room without comment. My heart was still thumping, but my head felt amazingly clear. At least one mystery was solved.

  “Kate?” Wayne called out.

  “Wayne, could you come in the living room?” I called back.

  Wayne must have heard the alarm I was trying to keep out of my voice. He shuffled into the living room in his p.j.’s within moments. Nancy and I were sitting together on the old denim couch as he came in. He surveyed us silently and sat on her other side. I had the support staff I needed. Finally, I let go of Nancy’s arm. And breathed.

  “Wayne,” I said, “this is Nancy, Craig’s girlfriend. Nancy, this is Wayne, my boyfriend.”

  “Nancy,” Wayne greeted her politely, inclining his head. Even in p.j.’s and Vicks, the man had manners.

  “You’re Kate’s boyfriend?” Nancy asked, her large eyes widening further. “Craig didn’t tell me Kate lived with her boyfriend.”

  Wayne lifted his eyebrows ever so slightly. Had we been alone, I’m sure his mouth would have moved too. But he wasn’t about to start in on Craig in front of Nancy. More manners. Certainly a lot more manners than I had.

  “I gotta make a phone call,” I told the two of them and crossed over to my office.

  Craig had made this mess and I was determined that Craig would clean it up. I punched out the phone number, thinking of Craig’s face. Three, punch. Six, punch. Eight, punch. I got his answering machine.

  “Craig, get on this phone now!” I ordered.

  “Kate?” came his voice in a few seconds.

  “Nancy is here,” I informed him.

  “Nancy,” he replied sleepily. Good, I’d awakened him.

  “Nancy, your girlfriend,” I reminded him.

  A few words drifted in from the living room in the telephone silence that followed.

  “And then I thought he loved me, but he started talking about his ex-wife.”

  Wayne’s voice answered in a low rumble. I couldn’t make out his words.

  “Kate, she isn’t my girlfriend,” the phone said finally.

  “Craig,” I whispered, my hand cupping the speaker, hoping Craig could hear and Nancy couldn’t. “I don’t care if you think Nancy is or isn’t your girlfriend. You come right over here and make the poor woman feel good.”

  “But it’s late,” Craig whined. 1 asked myself how I had ever loved this man. Memories of laughter and silliness came drifting my way. I swept them out of my mind.

  “I guess I was hurt,” Nancy said in the next room.

  “Hurt,” Wayne repeated.

  “I don’t care if it’s late,” I told Craig. “I don’t even care what planet you’re on. You come over here right now.”

  By the time I’d hung up on Craig, he’d promised to be there as fast as humanly possible and Nancy was telling Wayne the story of her life.

  “See, my parents got divorced when I was twelve, and my father married some bimbo.”

  “Ah,” Wayne responded.

  Writer? The man should be a therapist.

  “D’you think that’s why I get so jealous?” Nancy was asking as I went outside to clean up the front deck. And to find the spray paint. Wayne was doing so well, I decided to leave the two of them in peace for a while. I’d found the can of spray paint (neon green), swept up the sawdust, disconnected the sander, and wrapped up the extension cord by the time Craig came driving up.

  I caught him before he even made it over the threshold.

  “Look at this door!” I hissed. “Your friend Nancy did this.”

  “I didn’t know—” he began

  “Well, you do now,” I told him. “I want you to buy me a new door and install it, understood?”

  “But Kate, I didn’t—”

  “Craig, you say you love me, and you won’t even replace the door?”

  I saw the struggle on his handsome face under the porch light. Craig is a notoriously cheap man. But I’d hit him where it hurt. I hoped.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “A new door.”

  “All right,” I breathed. “Now go and comfort that poor woman.”

  He started to step into the house.

  “And I don’t ever want to hear another thing from you or anyone else about Nancy or any of your other girlfriends.”

  “But, Kate,” he objected. “You’re the one—”

  “Not about me either,” I told him, thrusting my head up as if to jam it into his Adam’s apple. A fairly appealing thought, about then. “Especially not about me. Not ever again!”

  Anger can carry a lot of weight, even feigned anger.

  Because at this point I was too tired to be really angry anymore. All I wanted was my door replaced, and Nancy and Craig out of my house…and a couple of murders solved, but those would have to wait.

  I don’t know if it was the sight of Nancy weeping and clutching Wayne’s pajama lapels that made the difference, but Craig did try to comfort Nancy. Awkwardly at first, but then more seriously.

  “I do care for you,” he was saying when Wayne and I slipped out of the living room, minutes later.

  “Really?” Nancy murmured back.

  Their two voices intermingled as we made our way down the hallway.

  Wayne and I had reached the bedroom and were all set to go in when I heard, “We can go halfsies on the door, okay?” from Craig and almost turned back.

  But it was none of my business now. I could only hope I’d seen the last of Nancy. And of Craig.

  Wayne just held me when we went to bed. No whining. No cajoling. I sighed appreciatively. Some things were right with the world. Wayne didn’t even ask about Nancy or Craig. He just consoled me, gently and sensually. Very sensually.

  Later, I told Wayne the story of the two murders, like a lullaby. I don’t know which of us fell asleep first.

  Friday morning, I was working on Jest Gifts paperwork again. But a new product line was creeping into my head. Psychic products. And I didn’t mean ether. My pencil had traveled without permission from a ledger sheet to a sketch pad when Craig and Nancy showed up with my new door. Surprisingly, it was a good, solid, oak door. And more surprisingly, the two of them installed it without incident under Wayne’s gargoyle glare as he sat on a deck chair in his robe. Craig didn’t ask to speak to me. Sometimes, life is really fine. And it’s good to treasure those times. Because they don’t always last long enough.

  Nancy and Craig had just driven away, and Wayne and I were admiring our new front door when Barbara’s Volkswagen bug shot into my driveway, popping gravel. It was surprise time.

  “Nice door,” she shouted as she got out of the car. A skinny guy with long, straggly hair got out the passenger’s side. He looked behind him as if assessing his chances of escape. Was he the surprise? Barbara grabbed the straggly guy’s arm and pretty much dragged him up the front stairs and onto the deck.

  “Paul is a dowser,” she announced with a nod in the direction of the man whose arm was imprisoned by hers.

  “Paul,” Wayne greeted the man, nodding as if he entertained dowsers on his front deck in his p.j.’s every day.

  “These are the guys I’ve been telling you about, Kate and Wayne,” Barbara went on cheerily.

&
nbsp; “We have plenty of water,” I informed Paul.

  “Yeah,” Paul mumbled and looked behind him again. “Probably a spring back there.”

  Actually, he was right. We did have a spring at the beginning of the driveway, one that became a river during the winter rains, not to mention municipal water all year round that ran into our pipes and out our faucets. So why had Barbara brought me a dowser?

  “Paul’s going to dowse for the murderer,” Barbara declared, and her eyes lit up. She probably would have clapped her hands too if she hadn’t been holding her surprise so tightly.

  I groaned. Wayne shook his head ever so slightly. And Paul mumbled unintelligibly and looked at his feet.

  “…usually do water…” was all I caught of his words.

  “Guess I’d better take a shower and get dressed,” Wayne announced, rising from his deck chair.

  “But—” I began.

  “Going with you,” he growled.

  “Sure,” Barbara agreed for all of us, her grin widening. “It’ll be fun.”

  So Paul followed Barbara and me into the living room to have a seat and mumble about dowsing while Wayne showered. And I whispered.

  “Barbara,” I hissed. “Wayne is sick. He shouldn’t be going out.”

  “He’ll be okay, kiddo,” she assured me. Then she frowned again. “Eventually,” she added.

  “‘Eventually’?” I demanded. “What do you mean by ‘eventually’?”

  Paul diverted his gaze out the window. I couldn’t blame him.

  “Kate,” Barbara chided me, nodding toward Paul. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “But—”

  Barbara shook her head, just like my mother used to when I was a child and out of line. And it worked. I asked Paul how he liked dowsing.

  “It’s a nature kind of thing,” he explained. I could just barely hear him. He wasn’t looking out the window any more, but he was staring at the floor again. “I do computer programming most of the time.”

  “Oh,” I tried. “That must be interesting.”

  “Not really,” he answered. “I’m just an old COBOL slinger. Years and years—”

  “So now Paul dowses,” Barbara interrupted.

  Maybe the years were getting to her. They were getting to me. I looked at Paul more closely. Under the straggly hair, he did look kind of ancient. Wrinkles and crevices defined his skinny face. And the sacks beneath his eyes could have carried computer monitors for that matter.

  “I’ve got the feel for water, you see,” he started again. “It’s like me and my stick can feel its flow vibrating.”

  “Oh, so you use a stick?” I prompted politely.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I learned about it from this really old guy years and years ago—”

  “And now he’s gonna find us a murderer,” Barbara cut in again.

  “With your stick?” I prodded.

  “Well, I never found a murderer before, but Barbara here keeps telling me I can, so—”

  “She talked you into it,” I finished for him.

  “Yeah,” he conceded, making eye contact for the first time.

  I looked back into his tired eyes and saw an appeal there. He wanted me to talk Barbara out of it. As if I could talk Barbara out of anything. But I opened my mouth to try.

  “We ready to go?” Wayne demanded, appearing in chinos and a white shirt before I could even form the words that might make a dent in Barbara. It would have been a worthless effort anyway, I told myself. And what could it hurt to have Paul dowse for a murderer?

  Then I took a good look at Wayne. I realized I hadn’t seen him out of his p.j.’s in days. I jumped up to hug him. And not just out of affection. I wanted to see how steady he was on his feet. He was steady enough to hug me back. And he didn’t smell of Vicks anymore.

  I took a big breath and said, “Let’s go.” Just like Custer. Just like Napoleon at Waterloo. Just like every other time I’d let Barbara talk me into something I’d regret later.

  The four of us climbed into my Toyota for the drive to Justine’s. Because that’s where Barbara insisted Paul’s dowsing should begin. At Justine’s.

  This time, four of us made our way up the stone path to the redwood-shingled cottage.

  Wayne met Justine when she opened the door and led us into the living room, or the dying room as I thought of it now. It seemed strange that a place where someone had died so violently could be so peaceful in the midday light. The knotty-wood paneling and grass cloth and fluffy white curtains cast their spell. And then there was Justine, a smile stretching the skin over her broad nose and cheekbones, crinkling her large, dark eyes.

  “You must be Wayne,” she greeted him, offering her hand. I tried to remember if I’d ever told her Wayne’s name. Or maybe Barbara had.

  Wayne took Justine’s hand and peered into her eyes as if seeking something.

  “You should be careful of your health,” Justine warned him.

  Wayne stepped back as if she’d had a joy buzzer in her hand. You’d think he’d had enough experience with Barbara’s pronouncements to be immune.

  “You’re doing well, but if you push…” Justine’s words trailed off and she shrugged.

  Wayne didn’t look worried over Justine’s words, but I was alarmed.

  “Have a seat, sweetie,” I told him. “I have a couple of questions for Justine.” And oddly enough, once Wayne was seated in one of the comfortable, corduroy armchairs, I found I really did have some questions.

  “Just what’s up with Artemisia, anyway?” I asked. “Does she really have bad spirits? I mean, she’s burning every herb known to woman and painting turtles and—”

  “Whoa,” Justine threw in. She put up a hand and laughed. “One question at a time.”

  “All right,” I agreed. “What’s with the turtles?”

  “Rituals,” Justine answered me seriously. “Those are rituals she thinks will protect her.”

  “But from what?” I demanded.

  Justine sighed. “Artemisia believes bad spirits are causing the confusion in her life.”

  “And are they?” I pushed.

  “Maybe,” Justine replied, her deep, quiet voice solemn now. “But the worst spirits Artemisia has to deal with are her own memories of an abusive childhood.”

  “Oh,” I murmured, and I was all out of questions.

  Poor Artemisia. I’d thought of her as silly, even nuts. But not tragic.

  “Don’t worry,” Justine assured me. “Artemisia may be weirder than…than”—she waved her hands in the air for a moment, then smiled before completing her sentence—”weirder than a painted turtle, but she’s a survivor. She’ll be fine.”

  And oddly enough, I did feel better with Justine’s assurance.

  Justine turned back to Wayne.

  “But you won’t be fine if you don’t rest,” she warned.

  My worry synapses started firing again.

  “Right,” he grunted.

  Justine just shrugged and crinkled her eyes into a smile once more.

  “Don’t be too concerned,” she went on, turning back to me. “He’ll have a relapse, but he’ll be fine in the end.”

  Wayne lowered his eyebrows to cover his eyes as I said, “Oh. Um, thanks.”

  I was glad he was too polite to do more than wiggle his brows. I was sure he wanted to scream at her. I would have.

  At least, Justine knew when to quit. She turned to Paul now, still standing by the door at parade rest, holding a forked stick in his hand.

  “What do you need?” she asked him.

  “Well, usually, I just look for water—”

  “He’ll need the names of the suspects,” Barbara answered for him.

  Justine’s voice was deep as she rattled off the list, beginning with her own name. “Justine Howe, Zarathustra Howe, Linda Underwood, Tory Quesada, Gil Nesbit, Denise Parnell, Artemisia Twitchell, Elsa Oberg, Rich McGowan, Barbara Chu, and Kate Jasper.” She might have been announcing the targets for a firin
g squad.

  Paul concentrated as she spoke our names, then turned back to the open doorway, holding the forks of his stick in his hands. And miraculously, the stick seemed to be pulling him, like a dog on a leash. Barbara, Wayne, and I trotted after him as he moved across the terrain outside Justine’s house, and then down a sidewalk, and into a public park. I hoped he didn’t need to go much further. Would he hitch a ride if he had to go to another city? But I needn’t have worried.

  We were all huffing and puffing when we caught up to our dowser, where he stood next to a water tower.

  - Twenty -

  I didn’t see any murderers standing by the water tower, though.

  Paul looked down at his feet. “Water,” he mumbled. “I found water.”

  “We noticed,” I told him. I could even smell the water now, mingled with the scent of grass and dogs past.

  “See, that’s what I’m good at,” he explained, his voice a little clearer. “Water, not murderers—”

  “Don’t worry, Paul, we’re just starting,” Barbara piped up cheerily. “First you find the water, then the murderer.”

  “No,” Paul said, only it was more of a groan than a word. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this—”

  “Paul, you’re not giving up, are you?” Barbara demanded, her hands on her hips, her lovely face pursed like a schoolmarm’s.

  “Yeah, I am,” he replied, holding his stick against his chest protectively.

  “But you’ve just started—”

  “No, I’ve just finished,” Paul corrected her.

  Much as I would have liked Paul to find our murderer, I felt a guilt-tinged surge of pleasure hearing someone, anyone, rebel against Barbara.

  I looked over at Wayne, wondering if he was sharing my pleasure, and the pleasure drained from my body. Because Wayne didn’t look good. He was pale and perspiring, and swaying on his feet. Of course, a run across the parklands was not really an appropriate activity for a man who’d barely been able to walk to the bathroom a couple of days earlier.

  “Wayne?” I whispered.

  But Wayne didn’t hear me.

  “Want a ride home?” he asked Paul, ever courteous, even as he stood there ready to pass out.