Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  Then he saw Sergeant Feiffer. Feiffer glared at Felix. Felix glared back at Feiffer. Reporter versus cop. I didn’t bother to introduce them. It was obvious that they had met each other before.

  “You ought to take better care of your friend,” Feiffer snapped at Felix. Felix’s eyes widened. Feiffer glared at both of us for a moment, then strode out the door and down the stairs.

  The moment I closed the door Felix started in. “I thought you were my buddy, my compadre” he whined. Then he escalated to shouting. “But noooo! Every time something big happens you forget all about me! You tell Barbara but not me! A story like this and all you can think of is—”

  The doorbell rang again. Oh boy. Someone else to yell at me?

  I opened the door and saw Vivian. Was this her day to clean? I couldn’t even remember what day it was.

  Vivian tilted her head toward Felix. “Who’s he?” she demanded brusquely.

  “Felix Byrne,” I answered. “Ignore him.”

  Felix’s face reddened.

  “What’s up?” I asked Vivian. I remembered now. It wasn’t her day.

  “I was doing a house down the street,” she explained. “They told me about the fire.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Finally. Someone cared if I was okay. “I’m all right,” I lied. “Thank you for asking.” I shot a pointed look at Felix. He had the grace to look down at his shoes. That was probably as close to an apology as he would consider making.

  “What happened?” Vivian asked.

  “Arson,” I answered. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  “Why?” Vivian pressed. She stared at me unblinkingly.

  I wiggled impatiently. Was she going to tell me I brought it on myself? “To stop me from asking questions about Sarah’s death,” I admitted.

  “Are you going to stop?” Vivian asked in an even voice.

  “No, goddammit!” I exploded. Why was everyone on my case?

  Vivian stepped back, hurt on her face. I was immediately sorry for shouting.

  “I just—” I began.

  “That’s fine,” she muttered angrily. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m just the hired help.”

  Felix smirked as she turned and left.

  “Out!” I shouted at him.

  The smirk left his face. “But—” he began.

  “I’ve got a lunch date,” I insisted. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Kate—”

  I centered myself, put my hands on his chest and gave him a light tai chi shove. He stumbled backwards a step. All right! I hadn’t been sure it would actually work.

  “Cool, I’m cool,” he assured me, putting up a restraining hand. “But remember, dinner’s on you tonight. Catch you at six.”

  As he walked down the stairs I felt a pang of guilt. He was Barbara’s sweetie after all.

  “Felix!” I yelled after him. “I’ll tell you everything tonight I promise.”

  He turned back to me, a gleam in his eye. His mouth opened.

  “Tonight,” I repeated and closed the door quickly.

  I trotted into the bathroom to fix my hair and brush my teeth. I was meeting Tony at his restaurant at twelve-thirty. I smiled at the mirror. Tony might be a murderer, but at least he wouldn’t yell at me.

  The Elegant Vegetable greeted me tastefully, as always. As I walked into the restaurant, the aroma of herbs and garlic wafted toward me. That was a big improvement on smoke. I breathed in happily and realized I was really hungry. I never had eaten breakfast. Vivaldi played softly in the background. Large watercolors of flowers were hung on the walls, and real ferns, philodendrons and palms grew in abundance. Tony walked up to greet me and gave me a long, warm hug. I sank into the comfort gratefully.

  “I’ve made some very special dishes in honor of your visit today,” Tony told me once we came out of the clinch. He held me at arm’s length and looked into my eyes. “In addition to the regular menu we have gingered eggplant salad, cauliflower mousse and tofu bourguignonne. And today’s soup is miso watercress.” He gave me a second, brief hug.

  “I’m salivating,” I assured him enthusiastically. But my genuine gustatory anticipation couldn’t stop me from staring at Tony’s face. Why were there dark circles under his round blue eyes? Was he mourning for Sarah? Maybe he just had a late date last night, I told myself. Or did he stay up past his usual bedtime to light my log pile on fire? I lowered my own eyes guiltily.

  Tony didn’t seem to notice. He led me to a corner table and whispered to our waitress that he wished to be considered a patron rather than host for the next hour or so. She was dressed in an olive-green sweatshirt over black tights, one of the more conservative outfits in the place. She nodded, bobbing her hot-pink and black-streaked hair, and then slunk off.

  “How come you hire these punkers to wait tables?” I asked in a whisper. For the moment I wanted to talk about anything besides murder. Or arson.

  “At first I took them on because the poor kids can’t get work anyplace else,” Tony explained gently. “They’re just expressing their feelings, but you wouldn’t believe the discrimination they run into.” He shook his head sadly.

  “I can’t imagine why,” I remarked insincerely as I watched the busboy filling my glass. His face was chalk-white. I hoped it was makeup and not natural. He wore a rhinestone nose ring, leather pants and a shirt that had torn shoulders and came down to just above his navel. The strip of hair that divided his skull down the middle was fanned into gold-tipped spikes. Tony didn’t seem to notice the insincerity of my words.

  “But then I found they were a drawing card,” he want on placidly. He leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “People who aren’t vegetarians come here just for the enjoyment of watching the kids serve. Isn’t that amazing?”

  I smiled. “It sure is,” I agreed honestly.

  “But enough business,” Tony said, sitting back in his chair. “What’ll you have to eat? Tofu bourguignonne? Cauliflower mousse?”

  “I’m overwhelmed,” I told him. “How about if you order? I’ll have whatever you suggest.” Tony flashed me a sweet smile, then motioned the waitress over and ordered a series of dishes and a bottle of Navarro pinot noir grape juice.

  “God, it must be heaven to eat here all the time,” I purred.

  “It is sometimes,” Tony agreed seriously. “Though most of the time I’m too busy cooking, or smoothing someone’s feathers, or doing all the—” He broke off with an embarrassed smile. “Enough complaining. Today is special. I’m going to get comfortable and appreciate the food and the company.” Then his face went serious again. “Since Sarah has gone, I’ve come to cherish my remaining friendships more than ever.” He looked so sincere as he spoke. But was he?

  “It doesn’t seem possible somehow that Sarah is really gone,” I prompted.

  “No,” said Tony, his sorrowful eyes staring out past me. “I’m thirty-four years old and I go to funerals every month. I study the obituary column like an old man. So many of my friends have died. I should be used to it.”

  AIDS, I thought. He’s talking about AIDS. My stomach spasmed. I knew he did hospice work, but he rarely talked about it. I reached out to touch his hand. He was such a good man.

  “You’re all right, aren’t you?” I asked, suddenly worried by his mood.

  He brought his eyes back to mine and smiled weakly. I could tell it was an effort. “So far, so good,” he said, squeezing my outstretched hand. Then he leaned forward. “What I don’t understand is Sarah dying,” he whispered. “She wasn’t sick. And she was… she was…”

  “Immortal,” I finished for him.

  “Yes…” he agreed slowly. “I suppose I actually believed that.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand how it could have happened.” He stared at me intently. What answers did he want from me?

  “You mean how she was murdered?” I asked, retrieving my hand.

  “Murdered!” Tony yelpe
d. “She wasn’t murdered, was she?” His face paled. Was it possible that he hadn’t realized? He certainly looked shocked and horrified.

  “I’m sorry, Tony,” I said hurriedly. “I really don’t know if she was murdered. I just—”

  Our waitress arrived with our salads before I could say anything else foolish. I studied Tony’s face as she served us. He stared down at the table with unseeing eyes as she set his salad in front of him. He certainly looked like he was a man in shock.

  I decided to concentrate on my gingered eggplant. I dug in and brought a bite to my lips.

  “Murder?” Tony repeated in a faraway voice. “I read the paper, but I never really believed…”

  Damn. I laid my fork back down and reached for Tony’s hand again. I shouldn’t have done this to him. “Tony,” I scolded gently, “you’re right about enjoying ourselves. Now eat. Or I’ll feel bad.” He continued to stare at his plate in a daze until his natural graciousness reasserted itself.

  “Of course,” he murmured. I let go of his hand and he speared a piece of eggplant. I didn’t know if he meant “of course we should eat,” or “of course she was murdered.” I let it go.

  We ate in uneasy silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say, except to ask him where he was at two o’clock this morning. So I praised the eggplant salad. Tony brightened a little. I turned up the heat as the rest of the dishes came. I sighed over the cauliflower mousse made with soy milk instead of cream, and moaned unashamedly over the tofu bourguignonne and clove-spiced pilau. Very few men can resist loudly orgasmic recognition of their skills. Tony was no exception. By the end of the meal he was smiling again, albeit wanly.

  I planned my interrogation as we drank our herbal tea. But before I could begin, our waitress brought over one of the customers who just had to speak to Tony personally.

  “I hate to interrupt you,” the woman whispered urgently. “But you have ants crawling on the floor.”

  “Yes, I know,” Tony replied quietly. “But we wouldn’t want to kill them, would we? So we’ll just have to share our space with them for the time being.”

  “Uh, well, I guess so,” she mumbled and toddled off in confusion.

  “Everyone’s after me to kill those ants,” he told me, shaking his head unhappily. “But I’d have to use pesticide. I just couldn’t.” This was the man I was suspecting of murder? I reminded myself that ants were not people and plunged in.

  “Tony, remember the last study group when Sarah said she knew your secret. What was she talking about?”

  He was silent for a moment, his brows lowered in confusion. Then recognition filled his eyes and he blushed.

  “She was just trying to get my goat, Kate,” he muttered. “And she did. But I’m not going to talk about it.”

  I just sat and stared at him, hoping to wear down his resistance.

  “I could make up something,” he said after a few minutes of this torture. “Then you would think you had it. But I’d rather be honest. Okay?” His round blue eyes looked beseechingly out of his open face.

  “Okay,” I sighed, giving in. “But I really do have a reason for asking.” He just continued to look forlorn. I pressed on. “Do you have a VCR?”

  “Yeah,” he answered slowly, confusion evident in his face once more.

  “Peter has a VCR too,” I said hurriedly. “But he’s uptight about his.”

  “Peter is really okay, Kate,” Tony lectured me gently. “He’s trying so hard to be perfect that he gets a little critical. He’s actually a harsher judge of himself than he is of other people.”

  I thought for a moment. “You’re probably right,” I finally agreed. I had never looked at Peter that way. “But he can sure be annoying.” I changed the subject. “Listen, are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Tony murmured. “Do you want an escort?”

  “No, no,” I said. “I have a friend coming with me.” I leaned forward and whispered. “What I really wanted to ask was whether you’d come to my house on Monday evening for this seance I’m arranging.”

  “What do you mean by seance?” Tony asked, tilting his head to the side.

  “Well,” I began. I took a big breath. I felt so silly talking about it. “I have this friend who’s into psychic stuff,” I rattled off. “The idea is that she’ll try to get in touch with Sarah’s spirit and ask some questions. If there’s any way Sarah can answer, I’ll bet she will.”

  “Yeah, she would,” said Tony, smiling reminiscently. “It’s worth a try. Sarah would love it.” Then his smile faded. “Oh, Kate,” he breathed. “Do you really think she was murdered?”

  - Thirteen -

  “I don’t know for certain that Sarah was murdered,” I answered carefully, adding silently that I wouldn’t take any bets against it.

  Should I tell Tony about last night’s fire? It would be a relief to talk to someone who wouldn’t yell at me. I could trust him, couldn’t I?

  “Tony, I… last night…” I faltered. I looked into his stricken eyes. I just couldn’t. He didn’t need any more shocks. “I don’t know,” I repeated.

  Tony dropped his eyes, graciously allowing my withdrawal. We sipped our tea silently, both lost in our own anxieties. Once we were finished, we shared another long hug, and I thanked him for the meal. He told me to “take care,” and I left, ninety-nine per cent certain that Tony was incapable of murder. Then I went shopping. I had neighbors to thank.

  By the time I reached home, I had deposited a magnum of champagne on the front seat of my neighbor Steve’s pickup truck, and a gigantic woven basket filled with balls of mohair-and-silk yarn on Grace’s doorstep, Easter bunny-style. I had also changed my mind about Tony. My confidence in his innocence had dropped to ninety-two per cent. When no one seems a likely candidate for murderer, the nearly impossible suspect becomes merely improbable.

  The first thing I saw when I opened my front door was the blinking light on my answering machine. I approached the machine and pushed the buttons cautiously. But all the tinny speaker produced was an invitation from Craig to accompany me to Sarah’s funeral. I slumped into my comfy chair. Why hadn’t Wayne called?

  I didn’t have the time for a major moan-and-whine break. I had bookkeeping to do. Even murder and arson don’t count as excuses to forgo work when you’re your own boss. I left a brief message on Craig’s machine telling him I already had an escort, then sat down at my desk and began punching the keys of my adding machine.

  The doorbell rang a little before six. I switched off my adding machine and switched on my memory. It must be Felix. I wondered where he was going to take me to dinner. Since I was paying, I assumed it would be expensive.

  I flung open the door with sarcasm on my lips. But Felix wasn’t on my doorstep. Wayne was. I didn’t stop to think. I just leapt toward him and caught him around the waist with the grasp of a drowning woman. He didn’t struggle. He just held me like a good lifeguard. I pressed my face against his sweatered chest, filling my lungs with his scent. Then C.C. got in the act, purring and squeezing herself in the space left between our ankles.

  “Heard about the fire,” Wayne growled.

  “Mrph,” I answered into his chest.

  “Barbara called,” he went on.

  I loosened my grip on Wayne slightly, feeling a sudden surge of guilt that encompassed Sarah’s murder, the fire and the man with his arms around me. I hung my head.

  “You’re coming to my house,” he ordered quietly.

  I didn’t answer. My brain was issuing a cacophony of conflicting instructions.

  “Stick with you night and day,” he promised. “No one will get to you.”

  “No, I need to be here to work,” I heard myself say.

  He withdrew the comfort of his arms abruptly. I looked up and saw the hurt in his face.

  “It’s not just work,” I said quickly. “I need to find out who murdered Sarah. Who set my logs on fire.”

  I watched his face harden into an expressionless m
ask.

  “Would you be able to watch me talking to possible murderers without interfering?” I asked desperately. He said nothing. “Well, would you?” I demanded.

  His eyes flickered ever so slightly. “Probably not,” he stated in a low, impassive voice.

  He stared down at me for a few moments. “You’re too close to this,” he said finally.

  I grabbed his hand. “Whoever set the logs on fire didn’t want to kill me,” I argued. “If they had, they would have torched the house.” I didn’t tell him about the warning on my answering machine.

  “Kate—” he began, life and frustration back in his voice. Then he sighed. “Right,” he rumbled.

  I grabbed him again. He returned my embrace tentatively. I squeezed him tighter, trying to squeeze his doubt away.

  I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Wayne pushed away from me gently.

  “Call me when you want my help,” he whispered and turned to leave.

  As Wayne passed Felix on the stairs, C.C. gave out a long, low-pitched yowl of distress. I looked at her wonderingly. Was she finally exhibiting the fabled feline sensitivity I had heard cat lovers twitter about? She batted my leg impatiently. No, I decided. She was just hungry.

  Felix pumped me as I served the evening’s KalKan. I answered all of his questions and more. I wanted what he knew about Linda Zatara in exchange. I told him all about the fire. I told him about the telephone message. I even gave him a quick tour of my charred back deck.

  “Far friggin’ out,” he murmured blissfully, gazing at the remains of my log pile.

  “Felix!” I protested.

  “Jeez-Louise, Kate!” he shot back. “Don’t pop your tonsils.”

  I closed my mouth. Should I tell him my tonsils were popped years ago? Felix took my moment of silence as an opportunity to further harangue me.

  “What’s the deal here?” he demanded. “Every time I try to talk to you, you’re pricklier than a pit bull with hemorrhoids.”