Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “What about it?” Vivian responded, her voice sulky once more.

  “Sarah must have told you something about it,” I pressed, unwilling to believe I had lost her again.

  “Sarah didn’t tell me anything any more,” Vivian muttered. “I was just hired help to her.”

  “Aw, come on—” I ventured.

  “What do you wanna know all this crap for anyway?” she demanded, cutting me off. “Are you gonna play amateur detective? Huh? That’s a good way to get killed, you know.”

  “How about helping me?” I asked. I sat down across from her and looked beseechingly into her eyes. “You could get state secrets out of the KGB, for God’s sake! We’ll make a great team.”

  She didn’t even deign to answer that one. She just set her jaw and looked deliberately out over my head. The phone rang. I signaled Vivian to stay put while I answered, but she turned a blind eye to my gesture. She got up, thanked me in a hasty whisper for the meal, and went clattering down the back stairs as I said “Hello.”

  My friend Ann Rivera was on the phone. Her cheery voice asked me where we were going to eat next Tuesday. My mind shifted gears slowly to respond to her simple question. She was the first person I had spoken to all day who knew nothing of Sarah’s death: The sudden return to normalcy felt like swimming up from the murky realms underwater to pop through to the air and sunshine. What a relief. We chatted about nothing in particular and decided to meet at The Elegant Vegetable the following week.

  The ease of the light conversation shook my resolve to investigate Sarah’s death. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I should just ignore it. I went to the sink to wash the remaining dishes. But by the time I had put the last spoon in the drainer, I had convinced myself once more that I couldn’t endure never finding out if the “who” was possibly someone I knew. I dried my hands and reached for my phone book.

  I found Janice Jackson listed in the Yellow Pages under “Attorneys.” She had a small advertisement, listing her specialties as business and family law, and offering free half-hour consultations. Would she talk to me about Sarah? About Sarah’s will? A knock on my front door interrupted my thoughts.

  I looked out the window and saw Sergeant Feiffer. I put on a friendly face as I opened the door.

  Feiffer’s face wasn’t friendly, though. His blue eyes were cool and serious. “Ms. Jasper,” he said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Sarah Quinn.” My muscles tensed when I heard the formality in his tone.

  “Come on in,” I said, hoping I was speaking as the spider to the fly, not the fly to the spider. I could ask questions too, I reminded myself.

  As I led him into the living room, he gazed at the pinball machines longingly.

  “Hayburners, Hot Line, Texan,” he murmured. “God, you’re lucky.”

  “Would you like to play a few games?” I asked and turned on the machines.

  His eyes lit up along with the pinballs. His hands reached out to the sides of Hayburners as if of their own free will. I had forgotten he was an addict. But he stopped himself as he reached for the plunger. He straightened up and glared.

  “Thanks, but I’m not here to play pinball,” he said. He forced his eyes away from the machine and back to me. My stomach flip-flopped.

  “A chair?” I offered nervously.

  “Thank you,” he said and sat down on the couch. All traces of lightness had disappeared from his face. He took a small notebook out of his pocket. Then he looked up at me and frowned. My stomach did another somersault.

  “Tea?” I blathered.

  “No,” he replied sternly. “Please sit down.”

  I sat. He continued frowning at me as I plopped into my swinging chair. Purposeful intimidation, I decided. Well, I wasn’t going to fall for that. I’d conduct my own investigation.

  “What have you guys found out about Sarah’s death?” I demanded as if I had the authority. “Was it murder?”

  “Whoa,” he said. I thought I saw a smile pull at his mouth for a moment. Then he leaned forward seriously. “What makes you think it was murder?” he asked.

  The ball was in my court. But I didn’t mind explaining. I watched his eyes as I outlined my reasons for rejecting suicide or accident. I saw a few faint flickers of interest, but nothing more. No surprises. I would have bet that he had been over this ground already. “And that leaves murder,” I concluded, volleying back to him.

  “That may be,” he conceded. I leaned forward eagerly, ready for an intelligent discussion. “But we’re still in the process of gathering information,” he finished.

  “Do you get that out of a book or what?” I asked in angry disappointment. “Every time I try to talk to you, you say you’re ‘in the process of gathering information.’ “

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he replied, his eyes almost friendly.

  “Yeah?” I prodded. Was he finally going to share information?

  “You shouldn’t dig into this,” he rapped out. He shook his pencil at me. “Let us do the job.”

  I sank back into my swinging chair. Another vote of no confidence. That made it unanimous.

  “Now, do you think you could answer some of my questions for a change?” Feiffer asked, his pencil poised. “For instance, who do you know who has visited Ms. Quinn’s house and maybe played with her computer? I have a list here: you, your husband—”

  “My ex-husband,” I interrupted.

  “Yeah, so I understand. I hear you’re not getting along with your boyfriend either,” he added breezily. His eyes smiled at me.

  I squinted back at him. Why was he suddenly smiling?

  The smile spread to his mouth. Then I recognized the expression. It was a leer. A subtle leer, but a leer none the less. Could he be interested in me as well as the pinball machines? It didn’t seem likely. I was no femme fatale. Maybe this was a new interrogation technique. If it was, it was effective, I decided. I was completely rattled. I realized my mouth was gaping open and clamped it shut.

  “Okay,” Sergeant Feiffer said, his voice stern again. He glanced down at his notebook. “You, your ex-husband, the housekeeper Vivian Parrell, the gardener Jerry Gold, Peter Stromberg, Linda Zatara and Tony Olberti.” He looked back up at me. His leering smile was gone. Had I imagined it? “Do you know of anyone else who’s been to Sarah Quinn’s house?”

  I didn’t answer. I was still trying to figure out the meaning of his smile. True, Feiffer had flirted with me the first time I met him. The second time too, for that matter. But I had assumed he was just playing.

  “Ms. Jasper?” he prompted gently. “Anyone else?”

  “How about the neighbors?” I offered, pulling myself back to the reality of Sarah’s death. “She might have invited them in.”

  “We’re checking that possibility out,” he assured me.

  “And her sister and her boyfriend?” I pressed.

  “Yeah, we’re checking them out too.”

  “I suppose you’re also ‘checking out’ her ex-business partner, attorney and accountant,” I concluded.

  “You got it,” he answered. He smiled again. I dropped my eyes quickly.

  “And I suppose it doesn’t look like anyone broke in or anything,” I mumbled.

  “They wouldn’t have had to break in,” Feiffer said, shaking his head slowly in disgust. “From what I understand, the woman didn’t lock her doors.”

  “That’s right, she didn’t,” I conceded. But I felt defensive on Sarah’s account. “You’ve got to understand,” I told him, “Sarah really believed in the benevolence of the universe. And that’s usually what she got too.” I sighed. “Until this, anyway.”

  “Well, I hope you lock your doors, Ms. Jasper,” he said. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” His voice was affectionate. Too affectionate.

  “No problem,” I said in an effort at nonchalance. My effort came out sounding gruff.

  Sergeant Feiffer seemed to catch my mood. His manner was all business when he asked me if I knew anyone
with a motive to murder Sarah.

  I shook my head. Sarah might have rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. But enough for murder?

  “You know these people,” Feiffer said. “Are any of them mentally unstable?”

  I shook my head again. But I wondered. Someone had to be unstable, didn’t they, to commit murder?

  “How about drugs?” Feiffer went on.

  “Drugs?” I repeated stupidly.

  “Yeah, drugs,” he said, smiling again. “You know what we say in the Sheriff’s Department—if you find someone who looks dead on a Marin street, put a mirror under their nose. If they inhale, they’re still alive.” He pantomimed sniffing coke.

  “No, Sarah didn’t need drugs,” I told him, laughing in spite of myself. “She was strange enough without them.”

  That comment started him on another round of intense interrogation. Just how was Sarah strange? Were her friends strange, too? Just what went on in our study group, anyway? Did we really meet in a hot tub? What did I know that I wasn’t saying? And on. And on. By the time he had finished pummeling me with more questions, I wasn’t sure which was harder to deal with, an affectionate sergeant or a serious one. An affectionate one was likely to become an angry one if spurned, I thought suddenly. My neck muscles tightened. I interrupted him before his next question to begin my own interrogation.

  “Do you know who did it?” I asked, watching his eyes.

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m asking the questions, not you,” he reminded me. Did he know? I wished I had Barbara’s psychic powers.

  Feiffer stood up abruptly to leave before I could ask anything else.

  “Those are some nice machines,” he said, looking at the pinballs wistfully. “Maybe I can come over for a game when this investigation is all over.”

  “Sure,” I said, without thinking.

  He gave me a big smile and left. I let out a long, trembling sigh. If only Wayne had given me that smile, I thought sadly.

  I shook my head violently. I wasn’t going to worry about men anymore. I reached for the phone book.

  Sarah’s attorney, Janice Jackson, was listed as having an office in San Rafael. I began to dial her telephone number but put down the receiver before I completed the call. She might refuse to see me if I called first. But what if I just presented myself at her office? I jotted down her address, turned on the answering machine, put on my glasses, and left the house before my mind could stop me with rational objections.

  The “Professional Building” that housed Janice Jackson’s office was neither modern nor attractively Victorian. It was a fifties-vintage, long, low two-story building. Its age and lack of style were inadequately disguised by new redwood shingling. I entered the lobby and found Jackson’s name on the directory among those of other attorneys, accountants and consultants. “Donald Simpson, Accountant,” was also listed. I took the accessibility of both Sarah’s attorney and accountant in one building as a good omen.

  The sign on Ms. Jackson’s door said, please come in, so I did. An attractive young black woman with warm, friendly eyes and cropped hair was perched on the receptionist’s desk. I asked her if I could speak to the attorney.

  “I am the attorney,” she replied. Strike one for Kate. She saw my look and laughed.

  “People often think I’m the receptionist. And, yes, I am awfully young, but I’m good, too! What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask you some questions about Sarah Quinn.”

  Her eyes narrowed, becoming less friendly, but she didn’t kick me out. She invited me into her inner office. She had made the best of the low-ceilinged room. The cream-colored walls were decorated with Japanese silk hangings that complemented the simple teak furniture.

  “Now, just who are you, and what do you want to know about Sarah?” she asked in a cool voice once I was seated.

  “I’m Kate Jasper,” I replied. “I’m a friend of Sarah’s.” There was no reaction from the attorney. “From her study group,” I added.

  “And?” she prompted.

  “There were a couple of things…” I faltered. “You do know she’s dead, don’t you?” I asked anxiously.

  “Yes, I know,” she replied. Her eyes narrowed further.

  “I’m looking into her death, kind of,” I squeaked. I made an effort to lower my voice. “I wanted to confirm the contents of her will,” I finished.

  “Do you think you’re in her will?” she demanded, a look of disgusted comprehension crossing her face. Strike two.

  “No, no!” I assured her. “I just wanted to know what was in it.”

  “Ahead of everyone else, I suppose.” She clicked her tongue. “Have you ever heard of confidentiality?” she asked, enunciating each syllable of the last word separately. I squirmed in my seat. Strike three.

  “Confidentiality, oh sure,” I said. I looked into her glaring eyes. “Maybe we can start this conversation over again,” I suggested hopefully. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to Sarah, sort of investigating, you know.” Her eyes softened a bit as I babbled. “I guess there’s not a lot I can ask you that won’t run into the confidentiality problem?”

  “Probably not. Sorry about that,” she said. She was smiling politely, but I knew I was definitely out.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time, then.” I got up and walked to the door. At the door I turned to ask one more question. “Have you ever visited Sarah’s house?”

  “No, I haven’t! Come and see me if you ever want to hire an attorney.” She ostentatiously broke eye contact and bent her head over the papers on her desk.

  I dragged my feet up the carpeted stairs to the next floor, wondering if I really had what it took to sleuth. Donald Simpson’s door was standing wide open. Unlike Ms. Jackson, he had not made the most of his single-room office. There was paper strewn over every available surface. Computer printouts, ledger sheets and long curls of adding machine tape covered desk, couch, shelves and most of the floor.

  As far as I could see there was no human form visible. I sighed and turned to leave. Then I heard a grunt from behind the desk.

  - Seven -

  My perception shifted instantly when I heard that grunt. Where I had only seen disorder before, I now saw the signs of a ransacked office. My adrenaline began to flow. Was that the grunt of a man returning to consciousness after a brutal beating? I stepped quickly toward the desk and cautiously peered over.

  Lying prone in a great nest of paper was a short, middle-aged man. As I looked at him, he opened his eyes. They were small, dark eyes set closely together over a disproportionately large nose and dark luxurious mustache. He blinked and sprang up, extending his chubby body to its full five feet.

  “A little cat nap, great thing for the mind. Donald Simpson,” he introduced himself, sticking out his hand abruptly.

  After an involuntary jump backwards onto slippery computer printouts, I remembered my manners and shook his hand. He energetically denuded a chair of its pile of papers and motioned me to sit down. He likewise sat, in his own chair, but without bothering to remove the paper which cushioned it. He kept his eyes fastened on mine as he began a lecture on the value of napping as opposed to sleeping. Midstream he asked, “Did I have an appointment with you?”

  “No, I… I’m a friend of Sarah Quinn’s,” I said, startled by the sudden question. I could feel my eyes rapidly blinking under his intense stare. Then I remembered Vivian telling me this guy believed you could spot aliens because they didn’t blink. I hoped I had proven myself a human life form to his satisfaction.

  “Ah, Sarah,” he sighed. “Terrible thing about Sarah.” He shook his head sadly. “Good mind, that woman had. The best! Kept all her records and documents on her computer. She’d bring me her floppies at the end of the month. Really understood the value of the computer as a tool—”

  “Did you ever get to see Sarah’s computer?” I asked, cutting into his discourse.

  “Never had the pleasure,” he replied, then rattled on blithely. �
��A robot of hers delivered some floppies here once. Knew it was Sarah’s doing ‘cause I could hear her giggling out in the hall. Great little robot, but you never know about robots.” He paused and frowned, his eyes leaving mine momentarily. “But, still, Sarah was straight. Sure going to miss that woman.” His eyes returned to mine. He had a questioning look on his face. Did he realize I had never told him the purpose of my visit?

  “Well, I’ve certainly enjoyed talking to you,” I said, getting up out of my chair. I leaned forward and shook his hand briskly. He smiled automatically and escorted me to the door. I could hear him tapping on his computer keyboard as I walked back down the hall.

  Once I had descended the stairway, I asked myself what I had gained by my last two interviews. Neither Sarah’s attorney nor her accountant had admitted to having visited her house. Then again, why should they tell the truth? I could see why Sarah had chosen these two professionals for backup, though. Simpson must have matched her own untidy love affair with computers, and Jackson’s “I’m good, too,” would have touched her positive-thinking spirit.

  A glance at my watch told me it was two o’clock, time to go shopping for Nick Taos. Guiltily, I realized I hadn’t called in to the Jest Gifts warehouse yet that day. I found a public telephone in the lobby and remedied the oversight.

  My warehousewoman, Judy, assured me everything was “cool.” There were no problems with the manufacturers, no problems with the mail orders, and the inventory remained stable. This was not always the case. Not only did whole boxes of stock occasionally disappear, but sometimes they were even transformed. One hundred Freudian Shrink-Proof T-shirts had once turned overnight into fifty attorney’s Faw-law-law Christmas mugs. Go figure. That day, however, everything was disconcertingly right at the warehouse.

  I didn’t have to go far to find the nearest Safeway. There was one right across the street from the office building. If my entree to Nick Taos involved the purchase of mass quantities of forbidden foods, I was ready. I loaded Mallomars, double-chocolate ice cream, Pop Tarts, candy bars, frozen cheesecake, Hostess pies and Coca-Cola into my cart. As I reached for the root beer, I considered the possibility that Nick was both a guilty murderer and a diabetic, and was arranging his own execution.