“I believe you,” I cut in hastily. “Really.”
So much for people as animals. I was pretty sure Linda wasn’t upset about Justine’s potential as a killer. I wasn’t certain, but I guessed that it was my slandering of dogs that had set her off. Then I wondered if Silk had ever said anything nasty about an animal.
“Cats can kill,” Linda went on. C. C. smiled up at her, spreading a claw. “They’re really very private animals, not like dogs. And they get embarrassed. Shamed. I wanted to tell you that.”
“So who’s like a cat?” I asked.
“Oh, lots of people,” Linda shot back. “Your friend Barbara, and Silk was, and Denise, and…”
“Barbara?” I demanded.
“Oooh, Kate, haven’t you noticed how she manipulates people?” Linda asked. She must have seen something in my face. “Not in a bad way, mind you. Cats are sweet too. But they get their own way.”
“How about Denise?” I questioned, backtracking. Following Linda’s conversation was like running a maze. You hit a dead end, then you tried again.
“Denise is very, very private,” Linda answered. “And embarrassed easily. And all clean and glossy. She likes to groom herself. She needs to stay clean.”
“Did Justine suggest you come here?” I asked. I wasn’t doing very well in this maze. Mainly because I wasn’t even sure what the goal was.
Linda hung her head for a moment. “No, Justine doesn’t think I should say anything.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, like Gil is a parrot, or Elsa is a fox, or…you know…” She faltered.
“A fox?” What was a fox, tricky?
“You’re a terrier,” she announced in lieu of an explanation to my questions, voiced or unvoiced.
“A terrier!” I stood up from my hanging chair abruptly. “You mean one of those little, yapping ankle-chewers?”
“They’re not yapping, Kate, they’re—”
“Sweet,” I finished for her. Actually, I usually liked terriers, but to be compared to one was a different story.
“Yeah,” she agreed, crinkling her eyes. “Sweet.”
“Linda, why did you come here?” I demanded.
But I never got an answer because the phone rang.
“Wait a minute,” I told Linda as I walked to the phone, but Linda didn’t wait a minute. She didn’t even wait a second. She set C. C. gently on the floor, rushed from the living room, and bolted down my front stairs like…well, like a clumsy horse.
“Hello!” I barked into the phone. A terrier, yuck.
“Hello, Kate?” a soothing voice came over the line. It was Denise, one of the cat people. “I just called to find out how you and Barbara are doing on the case.”
“Not very well,” I answered truthfully.
“I know you said you’d given up on Silk’s and Isabelle’s deaths, but Justine tells me you’re still looking into them.”
“Well,” I temporized guiltily. “Barbara is trying some goofy stuff, but I don’t think we’ve learned anything.”
“Oh my,” Denise commiserated. “It must be difficult.”
“Barbara’s a manipulative cat,” I blurted out.
“Good grief,” Denise responded mildly.
“Never mind,” I told her. “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Thank you so much, Kate,” Denise said and hung up the phone. I pictured her grooming herself, licking her Peter Pan collar and gabardine trousers.
Damn, Linda had made me as crazy as Barbara usually did. And I still didn’t know why she’d come over.
I worked for a good, long while, fed C. C., and ate a late dinner of frozen veggie pot stickers, steamed, telling myself that terriers would never eat steamed pot stickers.
Then I tiptoed into the bedroom to look in on Wayne. He was asleep, and pretty soon, so was I.
Saturday morning, the doorbell woke me. I looked up at my alarm clock. I’d never set it. I grumbled my way to the front door, expecting Barbara.
But Chief Wenger and Lieutenant Kettering of the Paloma Police Department were standing on my doorstep.
Wenger took one look at my zebra-striped, feet-included, dropseat p.j.’s, and began to laugh.
- Twenty-Two -
I drew my body up as straight and as tall as I could in a pair of dropseat p.j.’s and glowered at Chief Wenger, stepping outside onto the deck at the same time and closing the door behind me. There was no use waking Wayne up. Wenger took my show of strength as a cue to laugh some more, hysterically, accompanied by some doubling over and knee-slapping. And then, he started in pointing at me.
“Would you look at that?” he prompted Lieutenant Kettering, nudging his second-in-command in the ribs. Kettering took the nudge well, just barely blinking. He was probably used to it by now.
“I suppose you sleep in a regulation nightshirt?” I shot back, imagining an ill-fitting nightshirt with military epaulets sewn to the shoulders. And Wenger probably had skinny legs too, I decided. I find that imagination can be an excellent source of defense in embarrassing situations.
“Oh, no. The chief wears flannels—” the lieutenant began.
“Fer Pete’s sake, Kettering!” Chief Wenger objected, whipping around to glare at his lieutenant.
I looked at the chief speculatively, wondering about his flannels. Teddy bear pattern? Little tiny police badges?
“I’m sick of this,” Wenger snarled, bored with pajama talk. “Let’s just get on with it.”
“With what—” I began, but stopped when I saw who was standing behind Lieutenant Kettering. Looking as tired as ever, with fresh, dark circles under her eyes, Marilyn Levin, the Paloma Police Department’s psychic sketch artist, brought up her hand and waggled a few fingers in my direction.
“Is she going to draw more pictures?” I asked. I couldn’t believe they were using her again after the last fiasco.
“No, ma’am,” Kettering put in hastily. “This time, Marilyn will be targeting her energies in an entirely new way.” He threw his hands into the air as if to celebrate, but somehow I didn’t feel too celebratory myself. What—
“Just get it done,” Wenger threw in. Now, I really didn’t feel celebratory. But at least it didn’t look like Marilyn would be drawing any pictures of me as a murderer.
“Marilyn can read emotional meridians,” Kettering announced in an awed whisper.
“Emotional what?” I asked.
Marilyn placed her right hand lightly on my shoulder as if in answer.
“I’m ready,” she told us and lifted her left hand until it was parallel with the deck.
“Are you Kate Jasper?” Kettering asked me.
Marilyn’s left hand bounced up in the affirmative before I could answer…or maybe ask for Miranda warnings. Was this legal?
Kettering followed up with, “Is your anger meridian active?” before I could say anything.
Marilyn’s hand practically flew into the air this time. Yup, my anger meridian was warming up, all right.
“Hey, you guys—” I began.
“Is there anything your body would like to tell us?” Kettering pushed on.
Marilyn’s hand rose slightly. My body probably wanted to tell them to go away.
“Is it something about murder?” Kettering asked.
Marilyn’s hand dropped.
I let out an audible sigh of relief. Because I was beginning to wonder if I did want to murder someone. I just couldn’t decide if it was Wenger or Kettering.
“But, you are angry?” Kettering insisted.
Marilyn’s hand agreed.
“Is she angry enough to kill?” Wenger asked.
Marilyn’s hand dropped, and I stared at Chief Wenger.
I could understand Lieutenant Kettering’s obsession with this new form of torture, but Wenger? He couldn’t be buying this as a reliable interrogation technique. I looked into his gaunt face and saw real interest there. He was buying it.
“Ask he
r if she killed Silk Sokoloff,” he ordered.
Marilyn’s hand dropped before Wenger even finished the sentence.
“Isabelle Viseu?” Kettering tried.
The hand went down again.
I felt like sticking out my tongue, but they’d probably test it for anger enzymes.
“Does your body have a message—”
“Ah, just get a move on,” Wenger boomed. I didn’t think he was buying it anymore.
Marilyn withdrew her hand from my shoulder and gave me a tired little smile. All that hand waving must take it out of a body.
“Yes, sir,” Kettering responded and turned back to me.
“What’s your favorite color, Ms. Jasper?” he asked.
I waited tor Marilyn’s hand to move. Never mind that it was no longer connected to my shoulder.
“He’s asking you a question, lady!” Chief Wenger bellowed.
“Lavender,” I answered hastily.
Kettering’s eager-beaver face dropped.
“But that’s not on the list, ma’am,” he objected.
“Sorry,” I murmured. I couldn’t believe it, but I did feel sorry for him. None of his experiments were working today. Chief Wenger pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose. If any geese had been flying overhead, I’m sure they would have dropped out of the sky from pure admiration. So much noise from such a small man. And that was just the beginning.
“D’ya think she’s going to tell you if she likes red?” the chief challenged Kettering. His voice was loud enough to prompt the neighbors all up and down the street to ponder his question.
“Well, sir,” Kettering answered, “I could have Marilyn do a mind-body check to make sure—”
“You’re hopeless,” Wenger declared.
“Listen,” I began. “It’s not his fault—”
But Wenger was through with me. He turned and marched down the stairs without acknowledging my words. It was just as well.
Kettering murmured, “Goodbye, ma’am,” as politely as possible, and Marilyn waggled her fingers at me again before they followed Chief Wenger toward the driveway.
I stood on the deck as they drove off, wondering what had actually just happened. Then I shook my head and gave up. I had enough to wonder about. I shambled back into the house and slipped back through the bedroom, heading toward the bathroom to take my shower.
“Thought I heard some kind of animal,” Wayne murmured from his sleep as I was almost to the bathroom.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I assured him, turning back for a moment. “You did.”
He opened his eyes then, but just long enough to close them again before he went back to sleep.
He was still sleeping by the time I was showered and dressed and working on a new Jest Gifts direction. Something good had come of the psychic soiree after all. A possible new product line: crystal-ball cups, earrings, and scarves for psychics. My pencil scritched and scratched as my ideas came to paper life. There had to be a psychic magazine I could sell this stuff through. Or maybe psychics didn’t need magazines. I was pondering that thought when my doorbell rang.
By this time, I’d stopped expecting Barbara. Still, I was cautious as I approached the door. I didn’t want to talk to any suspects, or police, for that matter, any more than I wanted to talk to uninvited solicitors. I turned the doorknob and let the door swing open a good two inches.
“Jeez-Louise, kiddo,” Barbara’s cheery voice floated through the crack. “Expecting Jack the Ripper?”
“Not funny,” I shot back as Barbara pushed the door open the rest of the way. “There is a murderer at large, you know.”
“And we’re going to find out who that murderer is,” Barbara replied, her smile broad on her lovely face.
“Barbara, I’ve been thinking—”
“I brought my CAD program,” she told me, shaking the heavy bag slung over her shoulder.
“Fine.” I submitted. “We’ll just go back to Wayne’s office—”
“But first, I want to talk to Gil Nesbit again,” she finished.
“Barbara!” I shouted. “I’ve had it. Chief Wenger was here this morning—”
“Did Kettering molest your anger meridian?” Barbara asked sympathetically, her hand reaching to pat my shoulder.
“Well, yeah,” I muttered.
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” she assured me. “They pulled the same stuff on me. Luckily, I’ve had my anger meridian under control for years.”
I don’t know how she got me into the car to go to Gil Nesbit’s after that, especially into her car. Maybe it was the blinding rage that made me such easy prey. But we were meandering up the highway from lane to lane, listening to the screeches and honks punctuating the progress of Barbara’s bug, by the time I came back to my senses. Too late.
“So, I visited Artemisia again last night,” Barbara was saying as someone beeped nearby. “That woman is a trip, a looney-tunes, but I don’t think she’s a killer.”
“Why?” I asked. “Does she have her anger meridian under control?”
Barbara laughed merrily.
“You’re a riot, today,” she told me. “But seriously, Kate, I think Artemisia’s more afraid than angry. I don’t think she has what it takes to kill someone.”
“Linda Underwood visited me last night,” I offered finally, not really sure I wanted to talk about it.
“Really?” Barbara breathed, looking into my eyes. And drifting into the next lane.
“Barbara! Keep your eyes on the road!”
“Okay, okay,” she agreed, in a tone that is usually reserved to humor neurotics. Or psychotics. “What did Linda have to say?”
“She said people were like animals.”
“And?” my friend prompted.
“She said you were a ‘manipulative cat,’” I told her. I tried not to smile as I repeated Linda’s words.
“Huh.” Barbara considered the evaluation for a while. “I suppose I am a cat more than anything. There are all kinds of cats. And I suppose I’m a manipulative one, if that means I’m good at getting people to do things. Nothing wrong in that. What’d she say you were, kiddo?”
I chose to remain silent.
A few miles later, Barbara ventured, “Arf?”
“Barbara! How did you know? I hate it when you do that. It drives me crazy—”
“I’m a manipulative cat, that’s how I knew,” she replied. And then she meowed.
It was lucky we were within minutes of Gil Nesbit’s San Ricardo apartment. Lucky for me and lucky for Barbara, I told myself. I would have bet my anger meridian was on full throttle after her last crack.
And Gil Nesbit would have probably taken the bet. Given the right odds, anyway.
Barbara found the visitors’ parking lot, and then we found Gil’s apartment in a huge, run-down complex on the wrong side of San Ricardo.
“Hey, hey,” he greeted us at his door, a big smile on his all-American face, his loud voice echoing down the corridor.
“So, Gil—” Barbara began.
A dark streak came running at us, growling and barking. As it got closer, I recognized the streak as a Doberman pinscher. One of the breeds Linda had thought was maligned. I backstepped out of Gil’s doorway fast, sweat drenching my body as the Doberman’s drool-flecked face came into clearer view. Barbara stood firm, though. And sure enough, Gil caught the dog, mid-lunge on a choke chain, just as it unclenched its teeth to sink them into Barbara’s neck.
One yank and the dog was choking and whining and slavering.
“Hey, hey, Buddha,” Gil admonished the animal. “Be cool, these are friends, you know?”
Buddha didn’t buy it. He tried another lunge. Gil yanked the chain again and then dragged the dog into another room where he locked him in. I heard the first thump as the dog threw itself against the door.
“Well, it’s been nice,” I chirped, waggling my hand like Marilyn had earlier. The door thumped again. This time I saw it shake, bulging outwar
d slightly. My body felt like walking pudding now.
“No, no, come on in,” Gil insisted, ignoring a third thump. At least the door seemed to be holding. “Buddha’s really a big lover-boy. He just gets excited around strangers.”
“Oh, sure,” I squeaked. But Barbara walked right on into Gil’s apartment. I closed my eyes for a moment, then followed her, listening to the renewed thumps and barks. I told myself I’d run at the first sign that the door was splintering. Anyway, Barbara didn’t seem afraid. And she was psychic. She’d know if the dog was really dangerous. Right? Right, just like she knew who the murderer was.
“Well, okay, okay,” Gil was saying heartily. “I gotta thank you girls for coming all the way out here.”
Girls, my mind repeated. And then, Buddha. How could he call a dog like that Buddha? My fear was giving way to a spasm of self-righteousness. I allowed myself to look around the room as the thumping on the other side of the door subsided. Bachelor city. Stacks of newspapers, takeout containers, beer bottles, and enough losing Lotto tickets for a major landfill. I smelled old dope, beer, and garlic in an unhealthy brew. The only books in the room sat on top of the VCR. They seemed to be about gambling strategies. A sofa with a dirty blanket on it and a vinyl easy chair beckoned as invitingly as a date with herpes.
“So you got some Lotto tips for me, after all?” Gil inquired hopefully.
“Maybe,” Barbara offered. “But first a few questions.”
“Okay, okay,” he replied. He rubbed his hands together. “That’s fair. So, have a seat.”
I held my breath and lowered myself onto the couch, encountering a whole new scent. Eau de Doberman, dirty Doberman. Years of dirty Doberman. Barbara perched next to me, seeming to keep herself about an inch above the actual blanketed surface of the couch by some kind of levitation.
“So what’ll it be?” Gil asked us, flopping into his easy chair with no apparent reservations.
Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 23
