Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Nah,” Paul replied. “I’ll hitch.” He held his stick in one hand and strode across the park toward the sidewalk, just too fast for Barbara to catch up with him. “But thanks anyway,” he yelled over his shoulder.

  “I still think he could have done it,” Barbara groused as we walked back to Justine’s, slowly. I had my arm around Wayne’s waist, hoping he’d lean into me, but so far he hadn’t. He felt stiff and hot and sweaty, and his breath was a labored rasp. My own throat tightened just listening to him.

  By the time we made it back to Justine’s living room, I knew she’d been right in her prognosis. In fact, my own stomach didn’t feel so good. Because Wayne wasn’t going to be fine if he didn’t rest. He was already in relapse. That much was obvious to me.

  And it was obvious to Justine.

  “Take a seat, Wayne,” was all she said when she saw him coming back through the door with me and Barbara. But her dark, brown eyes were worried.

  “Be fine in a minute,” Wayne assured us all hoarsely as he dropped into a corduroy chair. And I mean dropped.

  It was good to hear his voice, hoarse or not.

  “Apple juice?” Justine offered.

  Wayne nodded mutely, only a slight tremor indicating his unvoiced question. How did Justine know he loved apple juice above all other beverages?

  As Justine headed toward the kitchen, I turned to Barbara. Or maybe it would be more to the point to say that I turned on Barbara.

  “How could you let Wayne come when you knew he’d just get sick?” I demanded angrily. Anger felt better than the worry and guilt that nipped at my conscience.

  “Kiddo, 1 didn’t know,” she answered, sincerity in her eyes. “I got a flash that Wayne might collapse or something, but it was just a flash—”

  “Would have come anyway,” Wayne offered up from his seat. “Gotta help you with this thing.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I know you want to help, but it’s not worth your getting sick over—”

  “Or your getting killed?” he cut in.

  I flinched. But at least his mind was still working. And his voice sounded better.

  “So your dowser found water?” Justine asked Barbara as she returned with a tall glass of apple juice for Wayne.

  “How’d you—” Barbara began, then stopped herself. It was nice to see Barbara on the other end of irritating intuition for a change.

  Justine laughed. “The water tower in the park?” she guessed. Or maybe she knew.

  Barbara nodded.

  “We all have our own, unique talents,” Justine declared.

  Barbara looked like she still wanted to argue that the dowser could have found our murderer. I could see it in the way she pulled her head back. Wow, a psychic fight. I sat down in the other corduroy chair next to Wayne to watch.

  But Wayne was the one who spoke next.

  “Long as I’m here,” he prefaced, turning his face to Justine, a face that had more color in it now, I was glad to see. “Wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”

  Justine nodded, lowering herself onto the ottoman across from us. Barbara crossed her arms and sat down on the floor next to her. She was lucky not to fall over. Maybe it was yoga or something. I certainly can’t cross my arms and seat myself on the floor at the same time.

  “Who was the Silk Sokoloff that you saw?” Wayne asked Justine. That was a good question.

  I looked at Justine as she looked up at the ceiling for a while, thinking out her answer.

  “I could tell you Silk was a joyous individual who crusaded for the rights of outsiders in society,” she began. “And I’d be telling you the truth.” She paused. “But then I could tell you that Silk was a wounded, lonely woman who craved attention and would do anything to get it, except really involve herself on a gut level. And that would be the truth too.”

  Wayne nodded.

  “I could also tell you that Silk loved goofin’ on people, that sometimes she hurt folks doing it. But another truth was that she loved people, loved interacting on a superficial level, loved playing, loved flirting.” Justine paused again. “Silk loved living.”

  “Then why did she die?” Wayne asked.

  “I just wish I could tell you,” Justine answered, her voice rising an octave. And I believed her. Her face had grown solemn under Wayne’s questioning. And focused. Barbara and I might not have been there. “Sometimes I think Silk just goofed on one person too many. But then I can’t imagine anyone really hating her. And someone did…” Justine rubbed her arms, her deep voice trailing off. “I keep trying to figure out who. But the intuitive process isn’t an exact science. It’s about feelings, symbols, flashes. Guesses. And none of them tell me who killed Silk.”

  “How about the guesses?” Wayne asked.

  Justine rolled her shoulders and stared at the ceiling again.

  “Guesses are guesses,” she told him finally, bringing her eyes back down to face him. “You’d like me to guess. So would Chief Wenger. So would your Kate. Denise keeps at me too. Like 1 could just snap my fingers and pull the murderer’s name out of a hat. But it doesn’t work that way, folks. My guesses have included almost everyone that was in the room that day, just like Kate’s must have. They’re no better than anyone else’s.”

  “Okay,” Wayne conceded. “But someone was angry with Silk, agreed?”

  It was Justine’s turn to nod.

  “Who’s anger material?” he asked.

  “All of us,” she answered. “We all have anger ready to ignite, given the right stimulus.”

  “But some more than others,” he guided her gently.

  She closed her eyes.

  “Yes,” she said when she opened them. “Tory Quesada is an angry person. And she admired Silk, but she wanted to be Silk more than she wanted to admire her. I don’t mean that Tory wanted to be bisexual. I mean she wanted to be the star attraction. And she was just the backup when Silk was around, angel or no angel.”

  “Angel?” Wayne prompted, his voice confused.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Justine muttered, a small smile lighting her face for a second. “You haven’t met Rogerio. Tory channels Rogerio.”

  “But does she really?” I threw in. I couldn’t help it. I had to know.

  Justine shrugged again. “Just because I’ve never felt Rogerio’s presence doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. Like I said, we all have our unique talents.”

  “Rich McGowan feels angry to me,” Barbara threw in.

  “Me too,” Justine agreed quickly. “Though I really think he’s angry at the work he has to do. He’d like to be angry with us, but he’s not really. On the other hand, that’s just another guess.”

  Justine rose from the ottoman and threw her arms into the air.

  “See what 1 mean!” she rapped out, her deep, soothing voice now a prophet’s voice of doom. “I’m guessing and making you suspicious. I’m angry. You’re angry. Gil Nesbit’s angry. Denise is angry. For all I know, Artemisia and Elsa are angry as hell. But I don’t really know. I’ve felt flashes of anger from everyone.”

  “Including your nephew, Zarathustra?” Wayne put in.

  Justine stopped, stock-still, arms abandoned in the air.

  Then she slowly lowered her gaze to meet Wayne’s, along with her arms.

  “My nephew may look angry,” she said quietly. “Being a tall, black teenager will give that impression, no matter what. But the boy’s no killer. He’s a seeker.”

  Talk about your feelings and flashes. I could feel a wave of energy from Justine as she spoke. Or maybe I smelled it. But for a moment, there was something there in the air, quivering. Something I couldn’t define. Was it fear?

  “Silk goofed on Zarathustra, it was true,” Justine went on, her voice even lower. “She kept on harassing him sexually, once she was sure he wouldn’t respond. That was her m.o. But he figured her out. We talked about it.

  It still bugged him, but not enough to kill her, believe me. That boy is all talk, folks. Scary talk coming from a gr
eat big, black kid, but talk all the same.”

  I wanted to believe her. But she was afraid. Or something. The tension was still quivering in the air.

  I opened my mouth to ask a question I hadn’t even formulated, and Justine’s doorbell rang.

  All four of us jumped. Time had been suspended. And there are no doorbells in suspended time.

  “A client,” Justine announced briskly after an endless instant went by.

  The three of us stood and rushed toward the door. I felt vaguely guilty as we did. Guilty for taking Justine’s time? Or just for suspecting her nephew? I still didn’t know by the time we got to the door and changed places with a too-thin woman whose white skin looked anemic instead of porcelain. Hadn’t Barbara said Justine was primarily a medical intuitive? I hoped so for the thin woman’s sake as we passed her.

  “Lunch?” Barbara proposed, once we were back in my Toyota.

  “No,” I answered as Wayne said, “Yeah.”

  “You need to be in bed,” I told him.

  “Only if you’re there with me,” he countered. “And I know the minute I go to sleep, you’ll be out checking up on some suspect.”

  “He’s got you pegged, kiddo,” Barbara threw in helpfully.

  I glared at both of them.

  “A nice little sit-down lunch isn’t going to hurt Wayne,” Barbara added.

  So we ate lunch. Thai. Wayne managed two bowls of coconut soup and an infinite number of questions. Questions neither Barbara nor I could answer.

  “Tory really an angry person?”

  Shrugs from both Barbara and me.

  “How about this Rich McGowan?”

  More shrugs. But the spring rolls were good.

  “Justine was worried about Zarathustra,” Wayne stated.

  We all agreed on that one, at length, over curried vegetables and seitan. But Barbara and I disagreed over the source of Justine’s fear.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted slowly, but added anyway, “I’ll bet she thinks Zarathustra did it.”

  Wayne growled something through some rice, which sounded affirmative.

  “No,” I argued, not admitting that 1 didn’t know what I was talking about any more than Barbara did. “I think Justine is afraid that the police will pin this murder on Zarathustra, whether he did it or not. She’s afraid of the perception of Zarathustra as a murderer, not the reality.”

  “Angry teenager,” Wayne threw in. I didn’t know if he was agreeing with me or Barbara.

  “Exactly,” Barbara pressed, laboring under no such doubt. “Angry teenagers kill people.”

  “See, that’s what I mean,” I shot back. I could feel the blood filling my face. “It isn’t fair. You’re talking a stereotype here, and Zarathustra is a real person. And you’re probably not the only one. That’s just what Justine’s afraid of!”

  There was a short silence as Wayne and Barbara digested my words and a little more rice with curry sauce.

  “Still, kiddo—” Barbara began.

  “I want to meet him,” Wayne declared, cutting right through our argument.

  “Huh?” I said, startled.

  “I want to meet this Zarathustra,” Wayne expanded.

  “Maybe I can see something in him that you two haven’t.”

  Barbara and I looked at each other. Maybe he could see something we couldn’t in Zarathustra. But did interrogation of suspects come under the category of dangerous to Wayne’s health? You betcha.

  “Kate,” Wayne muttered. “I just want to talk to the kid, not run triathlons with him.”

  I told myself I should have seen it coming as we climbed back in the Toyota to go to Zarathustra’s house. Or if not me, Barbara should have seen it coming. She was the one who was supposed to be psychic. Because once we’d opened the subject, of course Wayne wanted a chance to view the evidence for himself. And Wayne was determined. Pneumonia or no pneumonia, Wayne was going to talk to Zarathustra.

  Barbara had Zarathustra’s home address. I wish she’d lied and pretended she didn’t, but Wayne would have found it anyway, I suppose. All he had to do was ask Justine.

  Zarathustra lived with his parents in a nice, white-walled, beige-rugged, neat and clean home in Novato. A definite contrast to Justine’s eclectic decor. At least it looked that way from what I could see by peering around Zarathustra where he stood in the doorway. He’d been home and answered the bell, much as I’d been hoping he’d be out.

  Actually, Zarathustra was an interesting contrast to his parents’ home himself, his arms crossed, more than six feet of sullen teenager in black leather, chains, and studs. I began to wonder if maybe Barbara had been right about him after all, then shook off the thought and the goose bumps the kid gave me. Plenty of teenagers dressed funny. In fact, I’d dressed pretty funny as a teenager myself.

  “So, you some kinda private dick or something?” he challenged Wayne, jutting his head forward, light glinting off the diamond studs in his cheek.

  “Nope,” Wayne answered, unmoving except for a slight lowering of his eyebrows.

  “You’re here about Silk, right?” Zarathustra’s voice was definitely hostile. Anger “R” Us.

  “That’s right,” Wayne agreed, his own voice low and quiet.

  There’s nothing like a guy who won’t talk to get the other guy going.

  “Probably think I did it, right?”

  “Nope,” Wayne persisted.

  “Well, I didn’t,” Zarathustra informed him as if Wayne hadn’t replied at all. “Silk pissed off a lot of folks, not just me. She was—”

  “James?” a voice called from another room.

  “Zarathustra, Mom!” the teenager called back in exasperation.

  “Right, honey,” the voice said, and a plump, pretty woman with skin the very same raisin color as Zarathustra’s walked in. But Zarathustra didn’t get his height from his mother. This woman was probably closer to five feet than six.

  “Aren’t you going to invite your friends in?” Zarathustra’s mother asked in the same tone mothers have used since Adam and Eve tried to instill manners into Cain.

  “They aren’t friends,” Zarathustra objected.

  His mother took a breath in. I had a feeling we were going to hear a lecture. But Wayne intervened mercifully.

  “Here to talk to your son about the death at your sister-in-law’s soiree,” he explained brusquely.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured, shaking her head as if in memory. Then she seemed to come back to the present. She smiled. “I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Tina, Tina Howe, James’s—Zarathustra’s mom. Welcome to our house.”

  We’d forgotten our manners too. The three of us all introduced ourselves hastily and shook hands with Tina, as she pulled Zarathustra out of the doorway with her other hand and gestured us into her front room.

  “Would it be okay to speak to your son, ma’am?” Wayne asked politely.

  There was something about Tina Howe that seemed to call for politeness. I would have bet she was a school-teacher.

  “Of course,” she answered. “Anything to get this nightmare cleared up. You just all sit down, and I’ll leave you alone with Zarathustra.” Then she stage-whispered, “Having his old mother around cramps his style,” and left the room.

  Justine may have been worried about Zarathustra, but his mother clearly wasn’t. I wasn’t sure what that meant, though. Who knows a child better, his mother or a psychic? Or my sidekick?

  Barbara and I sat down on a beige sofa as I pondered. But Zarathustra remained standing. So did Wayne. Male bonding was fine, but I wished Wayne would take a seat.

  “Wayne, don’t you want to sit—” I began.

  “The cops have been all over me since Silk got herself killed,” Zarathustra burst out angrily and walked to the other side of the room.

  Wayne followed him without speaking.

  “Just ‘cause I’m black,” Zarathustra continued and turned to walk to the other side of the room, Wayne keeping pace with him.

 
“They don’t get it, man. I’m not just some street kid. I study. I know stuff. Nietzsche said the second step was to become a lion, roaring against the ‘thou shalts’ of society. That’s what Silk was doing. That’s why everybody was so pissed at her.” He came up against the wall and turned again, Wayne following him, step for step.

  “Sure, the woman played some head games with me, but she was just playing. I knew that, even though she made me mad sometimes. But I wouldn’t have killed her. Or anybody. She was cool, man, really cool.”

  Wayne nodded and kept walking with him.

  “See, Nietzsche was a player, man. He didn’t conform. He took a stand, gave the finger to all this establishment-morality crap. And he wasn’t a racist. You can tell from his writings, if you bother to read them. He just didn’t put up with bullshit. It was his sister who made him sound racist.”

  Nietzsche again. I felt my eyelids begin to droop. I’d forgotten who Zarathustra really was. But I was remembering now. Zarathustra was a tall, scary-looking, Nietzsche nerd.

  “You read Thus Spake Zarathustra, man?” he stopped to ask Wayne.

  Wayne nodded.

  “Really, man?” Zarathustra demanded, looking a whole lot less scary with some enthusiasm on his broad-boned face and light in his dark eyes.

  “The Will to Power too,” Wayne put in.

  “Oh, man, that was great,” Zarathustra breathed and began pacing again.

  The two males threw around some phrases like, “transvaluation of power,” and “God is dead,” for a while, actually a long while—it had to be close to half an hour—and continued to pace back and forth across the floor.

  I was getting dizzy watching them, but I had to admit, Wayne had the kid’s attention, for what it was worth. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that the kid had Wayne’s attention. But they were relating. And Zarathustra had dropped his street talk for the time being. I was pretty sure we were seeing the real person behind the black leather façade. Or maybe just the flip side of his personality. He could be both the black leather, angry kid and the Nietzsche nerd, I told myself, remembering Justine’s description of the many truths of Silk Sokoloff.

  “It takes courage to really look at the conventions of your own society and make your own decisions,” he told Wayne. “And Silk did that.”