Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Anyway, I’ll be glad to change the subject,” Sarah went on. “I’m working on this far-out new computer program. It models the genius of the very best stockbrokers. And I’m almost done. All I have to do now is come up with a name for it.”

  “Broker In A Box,” I suggested.

  Sarah giggled appreciatively.

  “Does it go in a robot?” asked Tony slowly, his face reflecting his confusion. Sarah mostly programmed personal robots for robotics firms.

  “No, no,” she said. “I’m branching out in a whole new direction…”

  I leaned back, relieved, as the conversation went on to business. We were all small-business owners, with the possible exception of Linda Zatara. I had no idea what she did for a living. Peter Stromberg had his law practice. Tony Olberti owned and cooked for his own vegetarian restaurant, The Elegant Vegetable. His cooking was inspired, so good that even the major San Francisco reviewers had praised him unanimously. Sarah Quinn made big money designing software for computer games, personal robots and whatever else caught her attention. And I was the sole proprietor of Jest Gifts, a mail-order gag-gift company.

  My cat, C.C., came skulking around the tub just as Peter launched into a tirade about that rarest of commodities, ethics in the legal profession.

  I dangled a wet hand over the edge of the tub to keep C.C. company. She sniffed it, then yowled her objection to the chlorinated water that dripped from my fingers. Peter stopped mid-sentence to glare at her. Was he going to overrule her objection?

  Before he had a chance to, Sarah began to serenade the cat. “Sing the blues, honey,” she caroled, blissfully off-key.

  C.C. obliged with a long, mournful meow. C.C. was hungry. C.C. was always hungry.

  I was hungry, too. I hadn’t had any breakfast. I was saving room for one of Tony’s spectacular meals.

  “Isn’t it about time for lunch?” I asked him hopefully.

  Tony nodded and stood carefully, barely disturbing the surface of the water. “I’ve got medallions of tofu, shitake mushrooms and greens in a lemon-herb sauce…” he began.

  I hustled recklessly out of the tub into the cold air, leaving a small tidal wave behind me.

  “And avocado-stuffed zucchini,” he continued as he stepped out onto the deck. Peter and Sarah scrambled out after him.

  “And spiced oatmeal-raisin bread…”

  Even Linda was out of the tub and drying off by the time Tony got to the apricot-and-currant crepes with whipped tofu-carob topping. We all threw on dry clothes as fast as we could, mostly sweat suits except for Sarah’s orange and purple caftan. Tony’s meals were worth hurrying for.

  Once inside, I set the kitchen table as Tony pulled the elements of our lunch from my refrigerator. He even had something for C.C., a cooked corncob, the only vegetarian dish she would eat. He squatted down and held it out to her. She inspected it suspiciously, then clamped her teeth around it and pulled it rudely from his hand. Tony was smiling dreamily as he straightened up.

  Sarah sidled up to him with a mischievous grin on her face and sniffed. “I know your secret,” she stage-whispered.

  The dreamy smile left Tony’s face. A pink tide rose slowly up his neck and into his cheeks.

  “But I won’t tell,” promised Sarah, winking. “I like your cooking too much.”

  Tony made no verbal response to her words. He turned back to the refrigerator and pulled out the rest of his covered dishes in silence. Sarah giggled as she walked to the kitchen table.

  Peter and I looked at each other and shrugged simultaneously. What was Sarah teasing Tony about? We all knew he was gay. That was no secret.

  I watched Tony as he put the finishing touches on the zucchini. His skin color had returned from pink, passed through normal and settled into pale. So what was the big secret?

  “Tony—?” I started to ask.

  He turned and handed me a fragrant loaf of bread. I could smell cinnamon for sure, maybe nutmeg. “Kate, will you slice this for me?” he asked quietly.

  I opened my mouth to pry.

  “Please?” he said.

  I sighed, shut my mouth and sliced the bread.

  We devoured Tony’s feast with the quiet focus of gluttony, only speaking to one another to claim more food. Once the last dollop of whipped tofu-carob topping had been licked from the serving bowl, we waddled into the living room, past the pinball machines—relics of a defunct business as well as a defunct marriage—to sit in comfort. C.C. claimed Tony’s lap as he flopped into one of the swinging chairs suspended from the redwood beam ceiling. Sarah grabbed the other swinging chair, and Peter and Linda sat down on the homemade wood-and-denim couch. I lowered myself carefully onto a large pillow on the floor, one hand on my too full stomach.

  “If no one else has anything pressing,” Peter began, “I’d like to discuss a potential client—”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Sarah interrupted, rising from her chair. Ignoring Peter’s scowl, she promised, “I’ll be right back,” and walked out the front door.

  Peter sighed, but continued with his story. “A man came in yesterday who wanted to sue his therapist for unlawful touching because the poor woman hugged him. Do you believe it?”

  Tony shook his head in commiseration. Linda merely stared as usual.

  “So what did you do?” I asked.

  Peter opened his mouth to answer, but the ring of the doorbell cut him off.

  Sarah? Or another visitor? I pulled my overfed body from my pillow with an effort, walked back past the pinball machines and opened the front door. A four-foot-tall aluminum robot wearing a curly red wig and padded bra stood on my doorstep.

  - Two -

  “I have gone beyond bodily limitations,” the robot announced in a choppy, metallic voice. Then it laughed. “Ha-ha-ha.” Each “ha” was a distinct syllable.

  I couldn’t help smiling. For all its metallic mannerisms, the robot was clearly Sarah’s child. Peter, Linda and Tony joined me at the door. Tony was chuckling softly.

  “Watch,” commanded the robot. It executed a neat quarter turn on its fat tires, rolled across the front porch to an electrical outlet, pried it open with clicking metal pincers, and plugged itself in for a battery recharge.

  “Ahhh,” it sighed. “I needed that.”

  Tony burst out laughing. But Peter just glared. Linda watched without expression, as usual.

  Sarah walked up the stairs and took a bow.

  “Pretty neat, huh?” she asked, once Tony and I had finished applauding.

  “Pretty neat,” I agreed. It was a lot better than some of the robot jokes we had endured at her house. Robots popping out of closets like jack-in-the-boxes, giving you the Bronx cheer or joining you in the bathroom. Sarah was big on practical jokes. Luckily, we didn’t go to her house that often.

  Peter wasn’t amused. “I was talking, Sarah,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “About a client whose case you didn’t want?” she asked, turning toward him.

  “Right,” he snapped.

  “Well, did you take the case?” she demanded.

  “No, but somebody will,” he shot back. “And then I look picky because I didn’t.”

  “Well, aren’t you picky?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Yes, but—”

  “If you are picky, look picky, and sound picky, then you must be creating your own reality most effectively.” Her mouth stretched into a wide Howdy Doody grin.

  “Sarah!” Peter yelped, his voice rising from misunderstood to outraged in one word.

  Sarah jumped forward and hugged him violently. Then she kissed Tony and me on our respective cheeks, nodded at Linda, shouted “The universe doth provide,” and was on her way down the porch stairs before you could say “transpolitical ecological awareness.”

  Sarah’s robot whirred and clacked dutifully down the stairs behind her on its hydraulic lifters, then joined her in her new BMW.

  We watched the back of the car as it shot out of the driveway, poppin
g gravel. The license plate read iloveme and a bumper sticker affirmed “Too Hip, Gotta Go.”

  Peter snarled, “I could strangle that woman,” once more for the road, and our Sunday discussion group broke up for the day.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I wish I could claim it was because of my precognition of death. But it wasn’t. I was worrying about a lot of things that Sunday night, but mostly I was worrying about Wayne.

  I popped out of bed, dislodging C.C. from her comfortable position on my chest. She scolded me as I began to pace the length of the bedroom. My lover Wayne, I said to myself sadly as I reached one wall. I turned. Some lover. I stomped angrily toward the other wall. We hadn’t made love in three months!

  I stopped pacing to pick up C.C. She was a small black cat with white spots, one shaped like a goatee on her chin and another like a beret balanced rakishly over her right ear. I buried my face in her fur and hugged her. She squirmed impatiently out of my arms. Damn. My cat didn’t even love me anymore.

  I sighed and wandered into the living room, struggling with my wide-awake mind. Wayne and I had been blissful lovers for almost a year when my divorce from my husband Craig had been declared final.

  And then the fertilizer had hit the proverbial fan. Wayne wanted to marry me. A simple enough desire. Except that I didn’t want to be married.

  I sat in one of the canvas chairs that hung from the beams of the ceiling, remembering Wayne sitting in the chair when we had met two years ago. He had been so shy, so… so unassertive.

  I let out a deep, martyr’s sigh. Our relationship had been everything I wanted. At least until the prospect of marriage had reared its ugly head. I pushed off with my feet and let my chair swing slowly back and forth.

  Wayne was a man of such contradictions. A gentle man with a black belt in karate. A man with a scarred and battered face on top of a gorgeous body. A man with a law degree who had spent most of his adult years as a bodyguard and companion to a wealthy manic-depressive. An articulate writer whose speech was brusque, often to the point of unintelligibility. And a kind and loving man who was as stubborn as I was.

  For many months Wayne had gone along with my hesitation about marriage. But finally he got fed up. Then, three months ago, he became militant. Either we were married or we were “just friends,” he insisted. He wouldn’t make love to me until I agreed to marry him. Coy maidenhood from a six-foot-two, muscular bodyguard?

  I got up from the swinging chair and walked over to the Texan, one of the pinball machines in the living room. If we got married, would we share expenses? That’s how I would want it. I had been down the road of financial dependency before and it had turned into a dead end. But how do you share expenses with a man who owns a mansion, a Jaguar and a restaurant empire?

  I switched on the pinball machine and watched the game light up. The Texan on the backglass gave me a broad, toothy smile that always reminded me of my ex-husband Craig’s. Craig and I had actually managed to have a warm, platonic friendship once we had finally separated. But after his girlfriend’s death, he had begun to think of me romantically again. And as little as I wanted to marry Wayne, I wanted even less to be romantically involved with Craig.

  I shot a ball listlessly. It hit a thumper-bumper and careened across the playfield. Bells rang. God, I missed Wayne. Was it time to give up my illusion of independence and marry him? I shook my head. Surrender couldn’t be a good basis for marriage. The ball came plummeting down the playfield. I pressed the flipper button a second too late. The ball touched the flipper’s tip, wobbled uncertainly, then dribbled down the drain hole. I turned off the machine and went back to bed.

  I had just fallen asleep with a little help from NatuRest, the “natural” sleeping pill, when the phone rang. Had I forgotten to set my answering machine? The second ring answered the question. I had forgotten. I pulled myself out of bed and looked at the clock. It was almost two in the morning.

  Groggily, I ran down the hall to the phone in my office. C.C. was ahead of me all the way. I flopped down into my comfy old Naugahyde chair and picked up the receiver. Sarah’s greeting came singing over the line. I grunted in return.

  “I’ve got a problem for you, Ms. Detective,” she announced cheerfully as C.C. jumped into my lap.

  “I’m not a detective,” I groaned. “Do you realize what time it is?” C.C. began ecstatically purring and clawing my thigh through my pajamas. That hurt! I hadn’t trimmed her claws for weeks.

  Sarah’s voice became more serious. “I really need someone to help me figure this out,” she said.

  “Figure out what?” I demanded. I was beginning to wake up. I plucked C.C.’s claws from my thigh and held her paws in my hand.

  Sarah didn’t answer me right away. “Come on over and we’ll talk about it,” she said finally. C.C. loosened a paw and dug in again. I unceremoniously dumped her on the floor.

  “You mean right now?” I asked Sarah incredulously.

  “Sure, why not?” she answered, her tone cheerful again. “You’re up, aren’t you?”

  “No, not tonight, Sarah,” I told her firmly.

  “Just for a few—” she began.

  “Tell me about it now, over the phone,” I interrupted. But Sarah wasn’t going to let me off that easily.

  “I want you here in person,” she insisted. “Can you come over tomorrow morning?”

  “No, I can’t come over tomorrow!” I exploded. Sarah was as imperious as ever and I just wasn’t in the mood for it. After ten more minutes of her badgering, I ungraciously agreed to visit her on Thursday evening.

  I slammed down the phone just as C.C. jumped into my lap for another try at my thighs.

  “You’d better watch it, cat, or I’ll have you de-clawed permanently,” I threatened, with a glare I wished I could have turned on Sarah. C.C. looked at me unblinkingly and sank her claws in again. I dumped her on the floor once more, set my answering machine and went back to bed. Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I’ll trim her nails.

  The next morning I overslept. It was after ten, and I had a NatuRest hangover. So much for “natural.” I was lying in bed when I heard a sound in the house. I jerked awake. Was it only C.C.? No, there it was again. A human being was definitely in the house, creeping around. Actually, whoever it was seemed to be banging around. A loud burglar? I wondered drowsily.

  Still half-asleep, I pulled my robe around me and crept out the bedroom door. I nearly collided with my quarry. I jumped. She jumped higher.

  “God, you scared me,” I told her.

  “Well, you scared the crap out of me! What the fuck are you doing sneaking up on me like that? And not even dressed yet,” she growled, shaking a handful of wet paper towels at me.

  My mysterious burglar was none other than my cleaning lady, Vivian, here as usual on Monday morning to clean house. Vivian was close to my age but she certainly didn’t look it. Especially that morning with her muscles rippling under her Liz Claiborne jumpsuit, her pretty, tan face registering shock, disgust and, finally, amusement. The amusement was one reason I counted my cleaning lady as a friend. The other was that we were born within a few days of each other, under the same sign. The sign was gossip. We both loved talking about other people’s business.

  “Wanna do tea?” she asked, pointing her spray cleaner toward the kitchen.

  “Yeah, but let me get some clothes on,” I answered, yawning.

  “I suppose you want herbal,” she grumbled, her throaty smoker’s voice loaded with disapproval. She had learned to carry her own Lipton tea bags when she came to my house. And on occasion, her own whisky as well.

  I stifled another yawn, nodded and shuffled back into my bedroom.

  “Hey, you got a shitload of calls on your answering machine!” she yelled behind me.

  Monday morning. I brushed my teeth, washed my face and dressed in a hurry. I’d shower later. I didn’t want to miss a good talk with Vivian.

  I cooked some Rice ‘n’ Shine brown rice cereal while Vivian made
tea for both of us. C.C. came slinking into the kitchen, eyeing Vivian warily. She knew who ran the vacuum cleaner, and she didn’t like her. I gave C.C. some KalKan as a consolation prize and joined Vivian at the kitchen table. Vivian handed me my tea, ran her hand through her bleached curls and started in.

  “I don’t see how you can eat that crap without milk or sugar,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward.

  “Sugar and dairy will rot your teeth and your mind,” I mumbled incoherently. The cereal was gumming up my mouth. A healthy vegetarian lifestyle has its own hazards.

  “You look great,” I told her after I managed to swallow. “Are you still pumping iron?”

  “You better believe it. I’m not going to give up these biceps,” she bragged, flexing as she spoke. “Maybe some guy will appreciate them some day.”

  “If you’d pick someone for his brains instead of his body, you’d have a better chance,” I reminded her. Vivian, according to her own account, had divorced three husbands. Each one had been incredibly handsome and incredibly stupid. She would fall in love with them at first sight and fail to notice their oafishness until about the time the minister said “I pronounce you…”

  “Yeah, I know,” Vivian answered. “Maybe a writer or an artist,” she whispered with a faraway look in her hazel eyes. Then she shook her head and grinned sheepishly.

  “Anyway, the muscles make me feel strong,” she went on in a normal voice. “I could take anyone on. Not like your airy-fairy tai chi. It wouldn’t work worth shit against a real mugger.”

  “I don’t know,” I said diplomatically. I didn’t tell her how tai chi had once helped save me from being murdered. I didn’t like to think about that incident.

  “I’ve heard some amazing stories of tai chi used in self-defense,” I told her instead. “And I’ve seen a movie of the master taking on the Marines. He was fifty-three or fifty-four in the movie, a little tiny man. First, four Marines all tried to push him over. They couldn’t budge him. Then one by one, they punched him in the stomach. He just smiled—”