Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  Our waiter arrived a few minutes of explanation later, dressed in silver tights and a maroon tunic. His legs weren’t perfect, but his face was pleasant and smiling.

  I ordered the Planetoid Pasta Salad. Arletta got the Martian Chicken Marinade. And Edna asked for a Halley Burger, named for the English astronomer.

  Then we got back to business.

  “So, what have you found out about the Snyders?” I asked, leaning forward eagerly.

  “Aren’t well liked by the locals,” Edna replied.

  “They apparently made no effort to mingle,” Arletta explained. She clicked her tongue. “And the neighboring business owners complain that they spent their money elsewhere.”

  “Cheap,” Edna put in.

  “Dan Snyder is a problem drinker and a drug user, according to our informants,” Arletta added. “His wife didn’t drink—”

  “But people thought she beat the kids,” Edna finished, her voice deep with disapproval.

  “Their grandmother, Rose Snyder, is good to the children, though—”

  “According to the neighbors,” Edna clarified.

  Our waiter brought our drinks before they could go on. It was just as well. I was getting a headache from swiveling my head back and forth as they took turns speaking.

  I took a sip of carrot juice. It was cool and sweet. They hadn’t used any tops when they’d made it.

  Edna loaded cream and sugar into her coffee. “The cops don’t know who did it,” she said, stirring the mixture.

  “They talked to you?” I yelped in surprise. Surprise and jealousy. The police wouldn’t talk to me.

  “We are concerned citizens,” Arletta reminded me.

  “Can’t say as we know who did it, though,” Edna continued, her rough voice disappointed. “Iris Neville seems okay—”

  “But I thought the photograph of Jim Jones’s hands was in poor taste,” Arletta finished.

  “No worse than Charles Manson’s hands. Or Jeffrey Dahmer’s. Or Ted Bundy’s. She had those too,” Edna pointed out.

  My stomach did a tuck and roll. I had only noticed Bundy’s hands.

  Edna and Arletta went on to tell me about their visits to Leo, Meg, Alice, Gary and Paula. As far as I could tell, they hadn’t discovered any important clues that Barbara and I had missed. They hadn’t talked to Ken yet, either. But I was still impressed. Very impressed.

  “How the hell did you find everyone?” I asked.

  Edna and Arletta both smiled widely and identically. Despite the fact that Edna’s face was jowly while Arletta’s was delicate and bespectacled, the look was the same.

  “Felix,” they answered together.

  I coughed as I swallowed a laugh. Felix grilled by the twins! I took a gulp of carrot juice and pictured the scene in my head. Delicious.

  Once our meals came, it was my turn for revelations. I told them everything I could remember in between bites of pasta and vegetables. Then we argued over the check. We finally agreed to split it three ways.

  They dropped me off at the foot of my driveway. Arletta rolled down the window.

  “We’re having an absolutely wonderful vacation,” she warbled.

  “Best ever,” Edna confirmed and they drove away.

  I turned to walk up the driveway, happy that they were happy. One woman’s murder is another’s vacation, I decided. Then I saw Barbara’s Volkswagen.

  All the fear of the last few days congealed into a hard cold lump beneath my rib cage. I could barely breathe. Talking about murder to the twins had been fun. Going to intrude on another suspect was not. Riding in Barbara’s car was not.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Barbara greeted me, coming down the stairs. “Hop in. We’re going to visit Ken Hermann at his office.”

  “I’ll drive,” I mumbled automatically.

  Rutherford, Rutherford and Kent, the accounting firm Ken worked for, was located in a six-story building in downtown San Ricardo, a skyscraper by Marin’s standards. Barbara and I took the elevator up and walked down a silent, plushly carpeted hallway to the office. Barbara opened the door.

  “Good afternoon,” warbled the receptionist in a pleasant soprano. She was a young woman, well-dressed and smiling if not beautiful. She sat behind a mahogany desk that could have seated a party of ten for dinner.

  “We’re here to see Ken Hermann,” Barbara announced briskly as we entered.

  The receptionist’s smile flickered. I took a closer look at her, wondering what the flicker signified. Her face was pear-shaped, her eyes small and pale despite makeup.

  “Mr. Hermann is out on an audit,” she told us, her voice less pleasant than a moment before. “Is this a personal matter?”

  “Yes, it is,” admitted Barbara. “But we need to talk to him. We’ve been trying since Tuesday. And we can’t reach him at home.”

  The receptionist shrugged stiffly, her smile entirely gone now. I considered claiming we were his cousins from out of town, but a look at Barbara’s Asian features told me the family relationship probably wouldn’t fly. We’d have to settle for the truth.

  “It’s about the cooking class Mr. Hermann attended on Monday night,” I explained. “A woman was murdered.”

  “Oh, dear,” whispered the receptionist. All the stiffness left her body. She leaned forward, looking up earnestly. “Ken told me about it. He’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “No, no,” I assured her, wondering if she thought we were from the police. “But we’d still like to talk to him.”

  “He really is out on an audit,” she said, her voice raising defensively. “He’s putting in sixteen-hour days until it’s done. It’s for a big case.”

  “Then why did he go to the class on Monday?” I asked. It sounded to me like Ken was using the audit as an excuse to hide out.

  “The audit started on Tuesday,” she answered. She lowered her voice again. “Listen, these guys have to put in sixteen hours a day if they ever want to make partner,” she explained. “That’s the way it is here at Rutherford, Rutherford and Kent.”

  That said, she crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair.

  Barbara and I looked at each other.

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Ken we’d like to talk to him,” Barbara requested formally and handed the receptionist a business card.

  We left before she read the card. I wondered if she would be surprised that Barbara was an electrician and not a policewoman.

  I waited to talk until we were safe in the Toyota.

  “Do you think the receptionist is in love with Ken?” I asked.

  “Of course she is,” Barbara told me, smiling smugly.

  I wanted to ask her if she had her psychic powers back, but I didn’t. It was too sensitive a subject.

  “Well, that’s it for the suspects,” I said after a few moments, sighing. I was tired, physically as well as emotionally. My whole body felt heavy. “Do you have any idea who our murderer is?”

  “That’s not it,” Barbara contradicted me. She turned her head to look into my eyes. “We’ve still got three suspects to go.”

  “Who?” I demanded. I couldn’t think of anyone we’d missed.

  “Dan Snyder’s mother and his two little girls.”

  “The girls are too young,” I objected automatically, but even as the words left my mouth I remembered Sheila’s oldest daughter rhythmically clenching and unclenching her fists as Sheila berated her on Monday night. My body felt even heavier. It had been spooky then. It was even spookier in view of Sheila Snyder’s murder.

  “That’s right,” agreed Barbara.

  “Your psychic powers are back!” I cried.

  “So far, so good,” she said softly. “Keep your fingers crossed for me.”

  I reached around her shoulders with one arm and squeezed.

  “Let’s go see Grandma Snyder and the little girls,” she suggested, her voice vibrating with life again. “At the flat above the Good Thyme.”

  I groaned. “They’re probably not even the
re,” I argued. “Worse yet, Dan Snyder could be there instead.”

  “Trust me,” she ordered with a grin.

  I turned the key in the ignition reluctantly and drove to the Good Thyme Cafe, mentally cursing the obligations of friendship all the way.

  The sign in the restaurant window said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE in hand-drawn block letters.

  “Well, that’s it,” I said, my voice high and squeaky with relief.

  “Nope,” said Barbara, pointing. “Look at this.”

  “This” was a set of buzzers to the side of the door, one labeled A and the other labeled B. There was a small grille above them.

  “Must be B,” Barbara said and pushed the buzzer before I could ask her how she could tell.

  “Hello?” came a female voice through the intercom. It sounded as tired as I felt.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Snyder,” Barbara boomed cheerfully. “My name’s Barbara Chu. My friend Kate and I would like to talk to you about your son Dan.”

  There was a long silence from the intercom and then a single word, “Why?”

  “We were there Monday night when Sheila died,” Barbara shouted into the grille. “Your son has been harassing us and—”

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” the voice said unenthusiastically.

  It was more like two or three minutes before the restaurant door finally opened. Rose Snyder stood in the doorway looking like Mrs. Claus on a bad day. Her body was soft and round under an old-fashioned floral print dress, her face doughy with pink circles of color on each cheek. Her permed silver hair stuck out on one side. She stared at us bleakly through gold wire-rimmed glasses.

  “I’m sorry if Danny has been bothering you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked down at her feet. “He’s been…he’s been upset.”

  “Grandma, Grandma!” shrieked a child’s voice from somewhere inside the building. “Topaz hurt me! She twisted my arm!”

  Rose Snyder’s eyes blinked wide open. She turned and took a few steps into the restaurant. Barbara was in on her heels. I followed Barbara with a sigh and we were all inside. The Good Thyme dining room looked about like it had the last time, except that most of the wooden chairs were turned upside down on the tables as if someone had been going to sweep up.

  “Opal, come down here to Grandma,” Mrs. Snyder called out. She turned back to us, rubbing her hands together nervously. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said.

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Snyder,” Barbara told her.

  “Please, call me Rose,” she offered absently.

  The smaller of the Snyders’ two children came running down the hall, her face streaked with tears. Her brown eyes went round when she saw us, and she turned away shyly, chewing on the end of one of her braids.

  “Opal, say hello to the ladies,” Rose instructed.

  “Hello,” Opal muttered and sidled up to her grandma. Rose put her plump arm around the girl.

  Opal’s older sister wasn’t far behind. The ten-year-old came slinking down the hall, her hands balled into fists. She had dark curly hair and haggard eyes. She stared at us without expression. The skin on my arms prickled into goose bumps.

  “Topaz, say hello—” Rose began.

  “You were there the night my mom died,” Topaz interrupted, never taking her eyes away from us. “Did one of you kill my mom?”

  FIFTEEN

  “TOPAZ!” ROSE PROTESTED shrilly. “How could you say such a thing?”

  Topaz kept her expressionless gaze fixed in our direction, not seeming to hear her grandmother.

  “It’s all right,” I said quietly. It was more than all right. It was a good question. “I didn’t kill your mother.”

  “I didn’t either,” Barbara chipped in, her voice deep and solemn.

  Topaz stared for a few moments more, then nodded as if satisfied. She turned and walked away, her small, curly head held high.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Rose said, then trotted after Topaz with Opal trailing in her wake.

  “Topaz, honey,” she called. “Wait.”

  Topaz stopped and turned back to her grandmother. Her fists were no longer clenched, but her face was still stiff. Rose knelt down in front of her, putting both her plump hands on the girl’s thin shoulders.

  “Honey, you’ve got to stop hurting your sister,” she said, her voice high and strained. “No one hurts anyone anymore. No one. It’s against the rules.”

  “Okay, okay,” Topaz muttered, squirming impatiently.

  Rose squinted pleadingly into the girl’s unresponsive eyes for a few more heartbeats, then sighed and pulled herself to her feet. Had she gotten through to Topaz? Somehow, I doubted it.

  “Why don’t you take Opal upstairs now?” she suggested gently. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “Can we watch TV?” asked Opal.

  “For a little while, sweetheart,” Rose agreed.

  She gave each of the sisters a peck on the cheek. Then Topaz led the way back down the hall with Opal taking up the rear. Rose turned back to us.

  “May I get you coffee or tea?” she asked politely, a tentative smile on her round face. Had she forgotten why we were here? Or was she hoping we would be equally polite.

  “No thanks,” Barbara declined for both of us. “But I would like to talk to you about your son Dan.”

  Rose’s smile faded, leaving only the spots of pink rouge to brighten her face. Her shoulders slumped. I felt my own face grow hot in response. I didn’t want to intrude on this poor woman. But I kept my embarrassment to myself. At the least, Rose Snyder was a valuable source of information. At the most, she might convince her son to stop harassing people.

  “Would you like a seat?” she asked finally.

  Barbara pulled three of the upended chairs from the nearest table and set them around it before Rose could retract her offer.

  “I’m keeping the children home this week,” Rose told us once we were seated. She looked down at the table as she spoke, her hands compulsively patting her silver hair. “I know I’m not their mother, but I do love them. I think…I hope it’s better for them to be home.”

  Barbara and I nodded.

  “I do worry about Topaz,” Rose confided abruptly. She looked up at us, her eyes unhappy behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “She’s violent. She got it from her mother, I guess.” A natural blush bloomed beneath the artificial color on her cheeks. “Though Danny can be pretty explosive too. His father was the same way.” She shook her head. “They say it runs in families.”

  We made sympathetic “uh-huh” noises. I noticed Barbara didn’t say anything about her own violent family. Maybe she didn’t want to interrupt Rose. Rose was on a roll.

  “Danny doesn’t mean anything,” she explained, her voice rising in pitch. “He just yells and makes a fuss.” The inside corners of her brows rose too, giving her eyes a pleading expression. Then she looked down at the table again.

  Dan Snyder’s ramming my car didn’t seem to fall into the category of simply yelling or making a fuss, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “Danny and Sheila just didn’t know what to do with their lives after they left that hippie commune,” Rose continued, talking faster now. “They did odd jobs, no real career for either of them. So, after my husband died, I decided to help them out.” She looked up. “Did you ever eat at the Good Thyme Cafe?” she asked.

  “I have,” I admitted. I tried to think up a compliment, but Rose raced on without me.

  “The restaurant was Sheila’s idea,” she told us. “Sheila thought a vegetarian restaurant could make a fortune in Marin. So I gave them the money to buy this building and set up the cafe.” Rose smiled softly. Were these memories good ones for her? But the smile faded as she went on. “It was awfully hard work, though. I should have realized that. Sheila worked thirteen hours a day, six days a week. That’s one thing I can say about my daughter-in-law, she was a hard worker.”

  “Was the Good Thyme making money?” asked Barbara.

 
; Rose blinked at her as if she’d forgotten we were there.

  “No,” she sighed. “Just barely breaking even. And with both Danny and Sheila working full-time. It was hard on both of them. A lot of stress, I guess you’d say. Danny took it out on Sheila. And Sheila took it out on the kids. Oh, she was level-headed enough, especially since she’d stopped drinking. But with Opal and Topaz…” She shrugged her shoulders, looking heartsick. “I suppose I shouldn’t have gone along with the restaurant idea, but I didn’t realize. This cooking class was supposed to make a little extra money. Sheila was taking half the proceeds, but…” She faltered.

  “It’s not your fault,” I told her. I knew I shouldn’t interrupt, but I couldn’t stand to see her so miserable.

  “Danny hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?” she demanded suddenly, her eyes pleading again.

  “Not really,” I mumbled. “But you might want to talk to him.”

  “I’ll try, but—”

  “Grandma! Grandma!” came a familiar shriek.

  We left Rose Snyder to her grandchildren.

  On the way out of the restaurant I bumped into Iris Neville. Literally. She was standing, bent over the buzzers by the door, her finger moving toward B. Barbara and I were busy whispering as we walked. I felt the impact of Iris’s body before I saw her. Luckily, I didn’t hit her hard enough to knock her over. I reached out to steady her.

  “Oh my, excuse me,” she gasped and unbent until she stood ramrod straight. Her deep blue eyes stared into mine for an instant. I stared back, noticing the strength of her bones beneath her expertly done makeup. Then she smiled.

  “Well, hello,” she chimed. “Such a surprise to see you here.” She reached up and pushed loose hairpins back into her French twist, still in place in spite of the impact.

  I dropped my hand and was about to apologize for knocking into her, but Barbara was faster.

  “What’re you doing here?” she demanded, then softened her tone. “I mean…I didn’t realize you were a friend of the Snyders.”

  “Oh, I’ve known Rose for years,” Iris told us, her tone hushed yet animated at the same time. Apparently she took no offense at Barbara’s bluntness. “Rose was a Richardson before she married, you know. Her father owned a good deal of Marin County in his time. And her mother was a charming woman, such a wonderful soul. Did you ever meet her?”