“Lesbian mothers!” she yelped. I wanted to put my hands over my ears. She wasn’t sounding like the radio anymore. “Good grief, lesbians shouldn’t even be mothers! And transsexuals? Perverts, every single one!” She took a deep breath and her voice was soothing again. “And I had to interview them all. With compassion and interest. Golly, sometimes I just wanted to…to puke.”
Golly, so did I.
“And then there was Silk,” she whispered. “It was no coincidence that Silk came into my life again, make no mistake about that. She was stalking me all these years; I know it now.”
She looked at us for belief.
Was Denise paranoid? Was Mick Jagger getting older? Of course, there were worse things than getting older. One, being shot to death. I nodded my understanding hastily.
“Silk would have made people think I was a lesbian. Me!” Ow, that yelp again. It wasn’t right from Denise Parnell’s lips. “Just because I have no husband, no boyfriend. I wouldn’t ever think about a woman that way. Never, for goodness sake!” She waved her gun in the air as if to say, imagine?
The lady doth protest too much, I realized. The gears in my mind began to mesh. No wonder Denise was so uptight about Silk. And the lady doth wave the gun around too much too, I decided.
“Um, Denise?” I ventured, keeping my voice as soothing as hers on a good day. “Do you know how dangerous guns are?”
Denise looked at the gun in her hand as if she’d forgotten. But she hadn’t.
“Of course I do, I did a show on them,” she answered. “That’s why I got one.” She looked at us thoughtfully. “Goodness, I’d like to talk to my therapist, but of course I can’t now. You see, Silk took that from me too. Because my therapist would have to report a murder, wouldn’t he? Oh, yes, he would. I’m sure of it. You can’t trust anyone. Even the wood has eyes.”
Paranoia was becoming a dominant theme here. Though, Denise might have been right about her therapist, for all I knew.
“It was the same when I was in college,” she went on.
“People thought I was a lesbian. I know they did.”
Yup, doth protesting a whole lot, here. For a moment, I felt sorry for Denise. Truly sorry. But then, there was the gun.
“And they were wrong!”
“But there’s nothing the matter with people thinking you’re a lesbian,” Barbara put in gently. “Not in this day and age—”
“Goodness, no,” Denise agreed bitterly. “Even if I was a lesbian, it would be all right here, especially where I work. Golly, all those perverts at the station would love it. The only thing that would get me fired there is the accusation of homophobia—”
“Oh,” I murmured. Suddenly, another credible motive was dawning. The motive Barbara and I couldn’t think of. It wasn’t enough that Silk stirred up feelings that Denise had tightly wrapped. Denise had seen Silk as a real threat—
“That’s what Silk was going to do, you know, publicly accuse me of homophobia just because 1 spurned her advances.” Denise’s face reddened above her Peter Pan collar. “Just because I wouldn’t admit…good grief, it’s my business what my feelings are. No one has a right to know. And there was Silk, pressuring me, for goodness sake. Just like in school. I left that school because of her, you know. She actually kissed me once.
“And then…then…” Denise gulped for air for a moment. “Silk whispered she was going to kiss me again. She had no right!” Denise’s whole body was shuddering now, her eyes out of focus.
Was this the time to jump off the couch? I wondered.
But then she looked right at us again, as if she’d heard my thought.
“So what’s wrong with homophobia?” she asked. We never had a chance to answer. “Homosexuality is a perversion. Why shouldn’t I be afraid of evil?” We never got a chance to answer that one either. “Silk would have ruined my life, ruined it—”
“So you killed her?” Barbara asked.
I whipped my head around to stare at Barbara. Didn’t a confession mean we were next? But it was too late anyway. I readied myself in my mind to leap off the sofa and kick. My body must have moved too. Because Denise took a step back away from the couch and pointed the gun my way. I leaned against the cushions again, wishing that tai chi taught astral projection. I thought of Wayne and wished I hadn’t. He would never forgive me.
Then Denise looked out over our heads, eyes out of focus again, almost. Even in her absorption, she was always watching us.
“You see, at first, I just thought about strangling Silk,” Denise told us, her voice smooth once more. “Just a little mental game, really. But then I saw the cat toy and I thought, goodness, this is really my chance. No one was looking, except for the eyes in the wood, of course.”
“The eyes in the wood?” I couldn’t help asking.
“The knotholes in the wood,” she explained patiently. “Haven’t you ever noticed how they watch you, those knotholes at Justine’s, just like eyes?”
“Oh, the knotholes, right,” I said, just between us girls.
“Anyway, the eyes aren’t important.” Denise went on, her deep, smooth voice businesslike. “The music was loud. The cats were fighting, drowning out the sound. Everyone was blindfolded and in the circle. And I had a scarf for my hands, so there wouldn’t be any fingerprints. It was perfect.” Denise smiled and closed her eyes for a moment.
Was she reliving the moment? I didn’t care. I inched forward on the sofa, flexing my legs to spring.
Her eyes popped open. I smiled engagingly. Denise resumed her story.
“So, I tiptoed behind her and put the wire around her neck and then twisted, twisted hard,” she said calmly. “Silk deserved it. She would have tormented me like she did at college, and now my job was at stake. I went to the bathroom afterward. I didn’t lie to the police.”
God forbid she would lie to the police.
“Weren’t you afraid Linda and Zarathustra would see you?” Barbara asked. And she was genuinely curious. A wave of affection washed over me. Barbara was near death, but she was still curious, curious as the manipulative cat she was. And then I remembered what Linda had tried to tell me. There were all kinds of cats. Denise was a cat. An ashamed cat. A private cat. And cats can kill.
“Linda and the boy were in the kitchen,” Denise answered. “I saw them go in. I could even hear them talking over the noise. Goodness, that Zarathustra is so strange.”
“So you were the only one,” Barbara confirmed.
“Yes.” Denise frowned. “Except for the eyes in the wood.”
Barbara nodded. At least her theory was right, even if we were dead women. I would have congratulated her, but I was still trying to figure out how to get the gun away from Denise.
“How about Isabelle?” I asked, buying time.
“Isabelle knew. She knew, she told me so.” Denise’s calm voice began to race a little. Bad form for a radio interviewer. “She saw my aura over Silk’s body. It was orange, that’s what she said. It was mine and it was all over Silk’s body.” Denise waved the gun as if excusing herself. “Isabelle wanted to die. She missed her husband. I just gave her what she wanted. I used the Socrates bust,” she added, pointing at her mantelpiece. Her voice softened. She actually sounded compassionate, but then her job skills included sounding compassionate. “She’s a good woman, and she’s with her husband now.” Denise paused for a moment. But only a moment.
“Anyway, it was all Silk,” she explained. “All Silk’s fault—”
The doorbell rang and all three of us jumped.
“Shush,” Denise hissed, keeping the gun trained on us.
“It’s the police!” a familiar voice bellowed. Chief Wenger. What a great guy. All of a sudden, I loved the bellow.
“We’re here to read your emotional meridians, Ms. Parnell,” Kettering put in. I even loved Kettering’s meridians.
Denise pursed her mouth, and tightened her grip on the gun.
“We know you’re in there!” Wenger shouted. “We can se
e your car.”
“Be quiet,” Denise warned and kept the gun on us as she crept to the door. “I’ve got the safety off, so don’t try anything.”
“Come on!” Wenger ordered. “Open up. Listen, lady, we don’t have all day!”
Denise slid a chain lock into place and opened the door a crack, holding the gun behind her right hip.
“Goodness, I’m so sorry,” she apologized smoothly, and sweetly. “I can’t help you right now. I’m in the middle of an interview.”
Wenger wasn’t going to buy that, was he?
“Can’t force her, Chief,” Kettering put in.
“Oh, fer Pete’s sake,” Wenger growled. “You sure we can’t come in?”
“Yes,” Denise replied simply.
She was going to close the door. Her hand was already reaching.
“She’s got a gun!” I shouted. And then to Barbara, “Hit the deck!”
Barbara and I flung ourselves onto Denise’s carpet with more enthusiasm than Gil Nesbit diving for a winning Lotto ticket.
Denise whirled, her gun at her side as she did. Then the gun exploded.
The sound was so loud that I didn’t even realize it was the gun for an instant. But in the next instant, my ears ringing, I felt to see if I’d been shot, then looked at Barbara next to me. Nothing was new there but Barbara’s sickly grin. Finally, I jerked my head up to look at Denise, remembering suddenly that she still had the gun.
Denise. I blinked. There was a hole in Denise’s leg. And a river of red blood was flowing from her thigh, staining her gabardine trousers.
Denise looked down a breath after I did. Her face looked surprised, then pale, then confused.
And then she closed her eyes and tumbled onto her nice, neat, clean carpet.
- Twenty-Four -
We were all at Justine’s the next day, even Wayne. Justine’s living room had a warm and welcoming feeling now, marred only by the occasional chill of ghosts. Baking smells drifted out of the kitchen, overwhelming the mingled fragrances of the group. Even Artemisia’s ever-present eucalyptus scent was masked for the moment. I let the warmth surrounding me sink all the way into my bones, wondering how my bones could have gotten so cold. Do bones actually have feelings? Linda popped out of the kitchen as if in answer to my question, bounding across the room with Tibia and Femur yowling at her heels.
“Zarathustra, wanna lick the bowl?” she asked.
Zarathustra straightened up from where he’d been lounging against the knotty-wood-and-grass-cloth wall, his arms crossed and his expression sullen. But Linda’s offer made him smile. And that smile lit up his face. I ignored the eyes in the knotty-wood paneling and concentrated on Zarathustra’s face. It was a good face, a kind face, maybe even a handsome one.
“You think I’m some kinda goofy kid, maybe?” he asked Linda, tilting his head and squinting his eyes, tough guy style.
“Oooh, Zara,” Linda shot back, raising her own weathered features to see him better. “I think you’re some kinda wonderful, sweet kid.”
“Oh, that was low, woman,” he yelped in that unexpectedly high voice and then smiled again, racing after Linda as she bounded back into the kitchen, cats streaming behind them.
Artemisia, Tory, and Rich didn’t seem to notice Linda and Zarathustra. The three made an odd triplet where they stood nearby, manifesting the world of evil spirits, the channeling of angels, and an unknown government agency. And still, they were speaking the same language. Maybe. I caught a little as their words drifted by on the warm air.
“…spirits can be controlled by herbs…”
“Rogerio thinks…”
“…um, interesting.”
I didn’t even try to make sense of the words I heard. Maybe no one could.
Justine had taken her place on the ottoman. And Wayne and Elsa sat in the two corduroy armchairs. I stood close by, along with Barbara. I wanted to make sure Wayne stayed seated. He’d insisted on coming with me, and I couldn’t blame him. Anyway, he looked good today, his scarred face pink with new energy, his hooded eyes clear and intelligent. Gil Nesbit marched by us again. He seemed to be pacing continuously.
“Hey, Lotto, Lotto, Lotto,” Gil greeted us, his eyes spaced under his aviator glasses. I wondered when he’d slept last. Gil Nesbit, the Lotto bunny.
Justine looked at Barbara and raised her eyebrows. Barbara blushed and shrugged. Bad psychic, I thought at my friend and nudged her in the ribs with my elbow. Wayne looked up at me and smiled slyly. He wasn’t psychic, but somehow he knew what it was all about. I smiled back, lost in affection for the man who had forgiven me.
The reunited psychic soiree was complete. Except, of course, for Silk Sokoloff and Isabelle Viseu. And Denise. And no representatives of the Paloma Police Department were present. But I didn’t even want to think about the Paloma Police Department. Today, the sun shone in the big open windows, and the fluffy white curtains fluttered, although there was no apparent wind. No apparent wind, so what was causing the curtains—? No, I told myself, as unbidden, a picture of Silk appeared in my mind, her hand fluttering the curtains as she grinned. Maybe it was safer to think about the Paloma Police Department, after all.
I was truly grateful that Lieutenant Kettering and Chief Wenger had been there to take Denise to the hospital. Truly grateful that they had been there at all. Even if Chief Wenger had been loudly aggravated by having to wait for my hands to stop shaking long enough to loosen the chain lock so he could get to Denise. And aggravated all over again that I’d grabbed Denise’s gun on the way. “Fer Pete’s sake, that’s evidence!” still vibrated down my brain stem. The gun had looked more like a weapon to me at the time. As for thanks, even Gil Nesbit wouldn’t have bet that Chief Wenger would ever give Barbara or me any credit for clearing up the mystery. I was sure of that.
A fresh blast of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg flew in from the kitchen. Linda’s work. I love it when other people bake. When I bake, I just burn whatever I’m cooking—and my hands in the process.
“So, kids, give this ole lady a clue,” Elsa began, her raspy voice loud enough to break eardrums today. She coughed and then raised her eyebrows over the frames of her bifocals. “This Denise gal, she gonna live?”
“Yeah, she was only wounded in the leg,” I told her. This had to be at least my third retelling, but everyone in the room seemed hungry for the words, hungry to hear them again. “They got some blood into her and she’s going to be fine, well, fine…”
“Physically,” Justine finished for me, her deep voice peaceful today.
“Wait a minute,” Tory ordered, closing her eyes. She put her hand to her forehead in the manner of silent movie stars in distress as we all turned her way. “Rogerio has something to say.” She paused. “Rogerio says Denise was always nuts. He says she dressed too conservatively for someone who ran a show about alternative lifestyles.”
I opened my mouth to object, but Tory, or Rogerio, had a pretty good point. I looked at the tons of necklaces and amulets weighing down Tory’s body and wondered what Rogerio wore. Or did guardian angels wear anything at all?
“Whooee, Rogerio!” Elsa put in. “You’re one hell of a smart angel. But funny how you came up with this after Denise got herself caught by these two here.” She turned back toward me and Barbara. “So, kids, how’d you figure it out?”
When Barbara didn’t say anything, I fielded the question.
“Denise was the only one with real opportunity,” I answered tentatively, waiting for Barbara to jump in. She didn’t. “Barbara had this computer program and we put everyone in place.” I stopped to look at Barbara, but she was staring at Gil still doing his Lotto mantra on the other side of the room. I turned back to Elsa. “Remember that day, how all our chairs were in a tight circle?”
“Too hard to get out of the circle without somebody noticing,” Elsa rasped in understanding. She looked up as Linda and Zarathustra came back in from the kitchen. “But what about these guys here?” She pointed. “They weren’t in
the circle either.”
“They were together,” Barbara threw in. I was glad to hear her finally talking. “So unless Linda and Zarathustra were in a conspiracy, they couldn’t be our murderers.”
Zarathustra glowered at Barbara.
“But of course, they weren’t in a conspiracy,” I added hastily.
“And we all saw the motive,” Barbara kept on. Suddenly, I didn’t think Barbara was a cat. She was really more of a pit bull. Maybe Felix was rubbing off on her. “Silk put the moves on Denise—”
“Hell, Silk put the moves on everyone, even this ole lady—” Elsa interrupted.
“But only Denise got twitchy about it,” Barbara finished. She smiled smugly. Nope, she was a cat, all right.
“Denise was very defensive about her unmarried state,” Artemisia supplemented in a whisper. She looked away as she spoke, but she spoke. “And she kept calling the people she interviewed ‘weirdos.’”
I turned my head to take a better look at Artemisia. Her long, pinched face looked more at ease today. And she was observant. More observant than I had been. Barbara’s smug smile was fading a little around the edges. Artemisia may have also been more observant than Barbara had been.
“Oooh, you know what else?” Linda put in. “Denise was really strong under those little-girl clothes. She must have worked out.”
“She said she lifted weights,” I remembered aloud. When had she said that? When we’d visited her the first time? And then I thought of the Socrates bust she’d used to bludgeon Isabelle. Damn, it was getting cold again. Wayne reached for my hand and held it.
“And her voice didn’t match her body signals,” Linda rambled on blithely. “All that soothing voice, and her body so twitchy, especially about lesbians.”
There was a silence. Not a particularly comfortable one for all the sunshine and good smells. I thought about how many signals I’d missed. And in case I couldn’t remember them all, Linda had more to add.
“Remember, Kate,” she reminded me. “I tried to tell you about Denise being a cat. Her feelings about Silk made her feel unclean. Cats can’t stand to feel unclean.”
Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 25
