Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  I flew into the Safari Cafe parking lot at seven twenty-nine with a sigh of relief. Peter Stromberg was very picky about punctuality. I could see him through the glass front as I jogged up to the cafe entrance a precise minute later. He stood ramrod straight in his grey pinstripe suit, hands clasped behind his back, his foot tapping impatiently. The clatter of plates and aroma of expensive coffees greeted me when I opened the door. Peter merely nodded.

  Once we were seated, I stared at Peter and wondered whether I was looking at the face of a murderer. And what about drugs in college? Peter squinted back at me intently. With his high cheekbones and sensual mouth, he was actually almost handsome. In a gaunt kind of way. I wondered why I had never noticed before.

  “So, what’s up?” I asked, breaking the eye-to-eye standoff. Peter jumped a little in his seat and then impatiently motioned for menus, without answering.

  I turned and saw the waitress bearing down on us. She was wearing the Safari uniform: hiking boots, khaki shorts and khaki top tied just under large breasts. Her slim legs and midriff were very brown. (The Safari Cafe also sported an in-house tanning salon.) Her body was perfect. Her face wasn’t as impressive, snub-nosed and small-eyed. But I guessed from the direction of Peter’s furtive glances that her face wasn’t at issue.

  The decor was definitely safari. Our table was a mock elephant leg. Fake animal heads looked down at us through lush potted plants. At least I hoped the heads were fake.

  The waitress handed us menus that proclaimed “natural safari cuisine” at the top. I looked at the first choice and blanched.

  “Got any questions?” she demanded.

  “Are the zebra burgers made from real zebra meat?” I asked weakly.

  “Naah,” she assured me. That was a relief. “Just plain old hamburger.” She paused for a beat. “Natural of course, real natural.”

  “Do you have any vegetarian dishes?” I inquired hopefully.

  “Oh, yeah, vegetarian.” She took her pencil and scratched her ear lob thoughtfully. “Uh, let me ask,” she said finally and turned away from us.

  “Hey, Johnny!” she shouted across the room. “What’s vegetarian?”

  “Do you come here often?” I whispered to Peter.

  “It’s conveniently located,” he snapped, his face reddening.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Native’s fare,” interrupted the waitress, turning back again. She pointed her pencil halfway down my menu. “Rice, beans and papayas, no meat.” I looked closer. “Native’s fare” was priced at ten dollars! Don’t be cheap, I scolded myself. The ingredients probably cost at least fifty cents, and I would have bet the waitresses got free tanning sessions. That had to put a dent in the Safari’s profits.

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  “The zebra burger for me,” Peter requested.

  I avoided his eyes. I didn’t care if he ate hamburger. I was a vegetarian upon doctor’s advice. I dreamt about roast beef at least once a month. I wasn’t about to proselytize. But I knew that no matter what I said, he was going to get defensive. Somehow, a vegetarian at the table has that effect.

  “Kate, you really need to be more flexible in your eating,” he told me. “We eat macrobiotic at home, of course. But when I’m in a restaurant I can allow myself to enjoy meat.” His voice went a shade higher. “There’s just no reason for your obsessive self-denial.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said. That stopped him cold.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again, foiled.

  “Listen, Peter,” I said, changing the subject quickly, “I’m going to arrange a seance with my friend Barbara. Probably Monday evening. To see if we can get in touch with Sarah. Would you come?”

  “A seance?” His eyebrows went up. “Are you going crazy?”

  “What is with you, Peter?” I shot back. “You practice all kinds of metaphysical hoo-ha. I don’t believe in half the cosmic connections that you do. But I’m willing to try a seance if there’s even an outside chance that we can communicate with Sarah. Why can’t you?”

  “I am not Shirley MacLaine,” he protested. He jutted his head forward.”The mysticism I practice is more subtle, more pure.” He waved his skinny white hand in the air in an effort to explain himself. I could see he was weakening. “Connecting to the higher self for spiritual progress is not the same thing as playing psychic games,” he finished.

  “But you’ll do it?”

  He looked down at the table and groaned.

  “For Sarah?” I pressed.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “For Sarah.” Then he surprised me by smiling one of his rare smiles. “This is just the sort of thing she’d want us to be doing, making total fools of ourselves. I guess we’d better not disappoint her.” He leaned back in his chair again. “Is Tony going to come?” he asked.

  “I’ll invite him when I see him tomorrow,” I answered. Peter frowned and opened his mouth. Time to move on.

  “I hear you took Sarah’s dog, Freedom,” I remarked slyly. “I thought you hated dogs.”

  Peter let out another groan. “I do, but Freedom was Sarah’s dog,” he said, as if this explained everything. His voice rose in pitch as he continued. “Freedom irritates me almost as much as Sarah did. The first thing that damn dog did when I took him to our house was to run away back to hers.” His face grew pinched in annoyance. “I had to retrieve him!”

  I stifled a giggle. I could imagine Peter retrieving Freedom, mutt hair all over his pinstripe suit. “How’s your wife like him?” I asked.

  “God!” Peter exploded. “Nancy hates dogs! Especially ones who defecate in her garden.” He looked at me. “You know what a sweet woman she is, spiritual and loving.”

  I nodded. She seemed that way. And even if I hadn’t known from personal experience, I figured she had to be a saint to live with Peter. Peter continued.

  “When she sees a dog in her garden, she loses all reason.” He lowered his voice. “She karate-kicks them.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  He shook his head sadly.

  “I’ve never seen Nancy act like that,” I said wonderingly. “She’s always so… so serene.”

  “If you were a dog, you wouldn’t think she was serene. Just try making a mess in her garden. Even a human who bothered her garden might get karate-kicked.”

  Our waitress brought our dinners before he could expand on the theme. She handed me a plate of rice, beans and papayas. I sniffed it suspiciously. It smelled good. I dug in for a bite. Peter picked up his zebra burger and munched fastidiously.

  “So, Kate,” he said a moment later, wiping his chin with a khaki napkin. “I’m learning a new computer system. Maybe you could give me some assistance.”

  “I don’t know anything about computers,” I mumbled through a mouthful of beans. “Except how to use a word processor and spreadsheet.” The rice and beans were surprisingly good and spicy. And the papaya was a good complement.

  “What makes you think I could help you?” I asked after I swallowed. Then I remembered that Sarah’s murderer must have known how to program a computer. I grabbed my opportunity. “You’re pretty good with computers yourself, aren’t you?” I prompted.

  “Oh, I hack around a bit,” he replied modestly. “But I don’t really have the expertise that Craig does, for instance.”

  “Peter, do you have a VCR?” I asked abruptly.

  “Yes,” he confessed. “I own one.” I watched his face go red. Was this a sign of guilt? I sucked in my breath. Had Peter been the one to leave the Philadelphia Beat message?

  “We use it to tape educational programs,” he explained shrilly. “And occasionally for quality films. I know you don’t own a TV, but there really are some good shows on PBS. It’s not all pablum for the masses, you know!” I let out my breath. He was probably just embarrassed to be caught enjoying the pablum of the masses.

  “Why do you want to know?” he finally thought to ask.

  “Oh,” I mumbled, taking an
other bite. “I was just curious.”

  “Indeed?” Peter glared at me suspiciously for a moment before continuing. “I remember Craig really seemed to enjoy Sarah’s computer setup. Did you two go over there often?” he said.

  It finally hit me.

  “Peter, are you interrogating me?” I asked loudly, clattering my fork down on the table.

  He jerked his head around nervously to see if anyone had heard me.

  “Yes, dammit!” he hissed.

  “Welcome to the club,” I said. “I’m interrogating you, too.” I picked up my fork again, laughing.

  “This is no laughing matter,” Peter snapped. He thrust his head forward and glared intently. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Were you jealous of Sarah?”

  “Well,” I considered. “A little. But I wouldn’t have wanted to be her.” I looked back at him. “Why? Is that your idea of a motive?”

  Peter shrugged. “I’ll admit I couldn’t think of a very good one for you. Or for Linda.”

  “Linda’s been asking me about you,” I told him.

  Peter stiffened in his chair. “What’s she been asking about?”

  “Drugs in college,” I answered softly, keeping my eyes on him. It was worth the effort. The blood drained from his face, leaving it a gaunt white mask. His hamburger slipped from his hand back onto his plate, splashing a thin spray of juice onto his white shirt cuff.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered, more to himself than to me. He rocked his head back and forth slowly. “I had hoped the past wouldn’t haunt me. I’ll never get a seat on the bench if…” His voice trailed off. I watched him as he visibly pulled himself together. He straightened his shoulders and dabbed at his shirt cuff with a napkin. Then he turned his glare on me in full force.

  “Do you know where Sarah met Linda?” he demanded.

  “No… I don’t,” I said slowly. “Do you?”

  He shook his head in short jerking motions. “Do you know anything about her?” he pressed.

  “No,” I answered honestly. I didn’t know anything yet. “All I know is that Sarah seemed to like her.”

  “But why?” Peter asked. He wrinkled his forehead as he began cutting his zebra burger into neat little pieces with his knife and fork. “What in the world did Sarah see in that woman?”

  I thought about it. “Linda listened,” I decided. “Sarah liked people who listened to her.”

  “Dammit!” Peter exploded. He dropped his knife and fork abruptly. “I never wanted that woman in our group.”

  “But Sarah wanted her, so she stayed,” I reminded him. I watched Peter as I spoke, remembering how angry he had been over Sarah’s intransigence. Peter met my eyes.

  “I did not murder Sarah Quinn,” he said firmly. I was glad to hear him say it. I just hoped he was speaking the truth.

  “Well, for the record,” I replied, “nor did I.”

  I saw his face relax. He was relieved too. I dropped my eyes to my plate, suddenly embarrassed by my suspicions. I ate for a while in silence, working my way through the rice and beans and papayas. When I looked up again Peter was making notations in a small leather notebook with his silver Cross pen. I smiled. He would take notes. He caught my look and shoved the notebook and pen into his breast pocket. Then he speared what was left of his zebra burger.

  “About Craig,” he said in a nonchalant voice. “Did he ever use Sarah’s computer?”

  I sighed, but answered. “He never really used it. He played with it a few times.”

  Peter nodded with satisfaction. He reached for his notebook again.

  “Peter, that was over two years ago,” I pointed out irritably. “While Craig was still in the study group. I doubt if he’s even seen Sarah since.”

  “Are you sure of that?” Peter asked in an insinuating tone. He opened the notebook.

  “No,” I admitted. “But you’re barking up the wrong tree. Craig can be a jerk at times, but he’s not murderer material.”

  Peter smiled smugly and put his pen to paper. “Let me be the judge of that,” he said.

  “All right, all right,” I told him. “You can be a judge if you want to.” The smug expression left his face. His eyes narrowed.

  “Are you making fun of me?” he asked.

  “No, not me,” I assured him in a voice of pure innocence. I bent forward. “But before you write anything else down, let me remind you that you’re the one who was always threatening to strangle Sarah.”

  Peter laid his notebook on the table and sighed heavily. “I know,” he admitted. “I don’t feel very proud of that now. But, dammit, she was the last person I would have expected to actually die.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, taking pity on him. “I think she really liked you threatening her. That’s how she could tell that she really had you stirred up.”

  “Thank you, Kate,” he said quietly. Now I wondered if he was teasing. Then I remembered. Peter didn’t know how to tease.

  “Did you ever go over to her house, besides the times we had the study group there?” I asked.

  “A few times with Nancy,” he answered. He didn’t pause to think it over. “But not for a year at least.” He opened his notebook again and riffled the pages. “The group only met at Sarah’s fourteen times in three years.” He looked up at me. “I counted the days on my calendar. I would doubt that any of us were in her house long enough to learn how to operate the computer. Or the robots.”

  “Could you have programmed her robot?” I pressed on.

  “It’s possible,” he replied earnestly. “Given enough time to familiarize myself with her system.” I looked into his clear eyes. Was his honesty just a ploy to convince me what a guileless person he really was? I had to keep reminding myself that this man was a skilled trial attorney. I observed his face closely as I asked my next question.

  “How much do you want to be a judge?” Peter popped up in his seat, his eyebrows raised.

  “Dammit, that could be a motive, couldn’t it?” he barked. He shook his head ruefully. “Blackmail. I hadn’t even considered it.” He reached for his notebook again.

  “Peter, you don’t have to write down your own motives, for God’s sake!” I let out a hoot of laughter without thinking.

  Peter’s face reddened once more. I smiled at him, inviting him to smile back. He didn’t. He didn’t even accuse me of making fun of him. He shot me a hurt look, bent his head over his plate, and ate the remains of his burger in silence. I finished off my “native’s fare” quickly. I had run out of questions for Peter.

  I was deep in thought when I got home. Was Peter a superb and evil actor? Or merely a pompous innocent? I opened the door and stepped into the house. As I did, I heard a rasping sound and saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

  Instinctively, I stepped back. The movement I had seen resolved itself into the hurtling form of a potted plant, which crashed to the floor at my feet. I stood there, stunned for a moment, staring at shards of clay pot, fern fronds and scattered dirt on the wooden floor.

  Then the residual buzz of adrenaline kicked in. My body began to shake as I looked up and saw the remains of the macrame network which had held the potted plant. One of the three suspension ropes was hanging down, revealing its frayed end. Time to breathe, I told myself. But as I sucked in a deep, trembling breath, uninvited questions began shouting for my attention.

  Was this a murder attempt? Was someone really trying to kill me? I looked at the pot. It was only four inches in diameter. I doubted that it would have even knocked me out, let alone killed me. Was I dealing with a stupid murderer or perhaps just a naively hopeful one? A picture of Nick formed in my mind. Or was someone just trying to scare me? I could see the end of the rope from where I stood. It didn’t look cut. It looked worn through.

  I dragged a ladder to the scene and climbed up to examine the other end of the rope. It too looked frayed and worn. The individual threads which had made it up ended at slightly different lengths and were spread outward. If they had
been cut with a knife, wouldn’t they have been more even? And how could it have been arranged to finally break at the exact moment that I walked in? I briefly considered calling Sergeant Feiffer as I climbed down from the ladder. Very briefly.

  Lighten up, I told myself. It had been twenty years since I had bought the macrame hanger. Who decorated with macrame any longer? In Sarah’s terms, the universe was probably telling me it was time to hire an interior designer. With that in mind, I cleaned up the mess, listened to my answering machine’s messages and returned to the business of my business. But my fear had blossomed like a spring daffodil.

  I worked until midnight. Avoidance of fear is a great incentive for boring work. At midnight I put on my purple-striped dropseat pajamas with the feet in them and rolled into bed exhausted. C.C. materialized in front of me and climbed onto my chest. I put my arms around her gratefully and fell asleep.

  It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when I woke with a start. C.C. was gone. And someone was calling my name.

  - Eleven -

  Had someone really called me? Or had I dreamt it? I lay there under the covers, straining to hear. There was a rustling sound, then the muffled voice again.

  “Kate,” the voice called.

  Who the hell was it? I sat up groggily and waited for the voice to call once more. Maybe then I could recognize the person it belonged to. But all I heard was a loud bang on the door that led from my bedroom to my back deck. At least the sound was loud enough to convince me I wasn’t dreaming. Reluctantly, I pulled myself from my warm bed. Why was someone banging on my back door in the middle of the night? Why weren’t they knocking on my front door?

  There was another loud bang on the door.

  “All right, all right!” I shouted, stepping around the bed toward the door.

  But I paused when I reached it.

  “Who’s there?” I called out nervously.

  There was no answer. But the rustling sound was getting louder. Was that the wind?

  Raccoons, I thought suddenly. It was just some raccoons playing on the deck. I had forgotten what a racket they could make. I reached for the doorknob with a sleepy sigh of relief. By the time it occurred to me to wonder how raccoons could call out my name, I had already turned the knob and pulled back the door.