Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Now Jake, you keep Kate company while I go make her tea,” she commanded and bustled into the kitchen.

  “You certainly have a beautiful home, Mr. Baum,” I said politely.

  “Jake, just plain Jake will do,” he replied gruffly. But his toothy smile eased the tone. “Built this house ourselves we did, way back, thirty-five years ago. Couldn’t afford it now if we had to buy it, that’s for sure. House around the block, no bigger than this one, sold for four hundred thousand dollars last week.” He grunted disapprovingly.

  “You sure did a great job building it,” I offered. “And landscaping it, too.”

  “Yep, we do a little gardening,” he said modestly. “Some of the folks around here don’t keep up their yards.” He grunted again.

  “Here you go, dear,” said Betty returning with a cup for me.

  “This is fresh rosemary tea. Just a sprig of rosemary steeped.” She watched my face eagerly.

  I took a sip and gave her the verdict. “This is great,” I told her. “Genuine herbal tea.”

  “Let me give you some rosemary cuttings when you go,” Betty said as she sat down. “You can plant them and do the same thing yourself. Now, I know you really came here to talk about Sarah, so I won’t chatter on. What did you want to know?” She gazed at me out of bright blue eyes.

  “Oh, just your general impressions,” I said. “Did you visit her often?”

  A quick look passed between her and Jake. It occurred to me that they might know exactly why I was here asking questions.

  “Actually, the last time we really visited Sarah at her house was a few years back,” Betty answered carefully. “She invited us over to meet her robots.” Betty lowered her eyes. “Her house was certainly—well—interesting.”

  “At least that gardener of hers kept up her yard,” Jake put in.

  “Did she have a lot of visitors?” I asked.

  “Nope,” answered Jake brusquely. “She didn’t do a lot of entertaining, thank the Lord.” Then he frowned. “The last people who lived there had parties all the time. Up till all hours of the night, music blaring, screaming and yelling.”

  “Drugs,” said Betty knowingly. “But Sarah was a real nice, quiet girl. That music she used to play sounded just like a choir of angels. She came over here fairly often, to show us her new robot tricks or bring us books.”

  “What books did she bring you?” I asked.

  “Oh… inspirational books, that’s what she called them,” answered Betty hesitantly. “Autobiography of a Yogi was one I remember.”

  “And Truly Tasteless Jokes,” added Jake, smiling. “I read that one. Had some pretty good ones. Nothing I could tell in mixed company, though. She had her robot bring it over. Quite a gal, Sarah.”

  “What about her dog, Freedom?”

  Betty lowered her eyes again. She turned to Jake, who answered the question.

  “Lucky we have a fence around our lot,” he rapped out. “Dogs can’t get in to leave their messes. Cats can, though. Little devils dig up my plants to do their business. That dog sure had people upset.” He looked down at the floor uneasily. “But Sarah wasn’t the only one with an unleashed dog. Cynthia Voss, now, she has six. Pretends to keep them in her yard and then lets them out real early in the morning, when no one’s up. At least Sarah never pretended.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” I agreed. “It wouldn’t be her style.”

  “Yep, Sarah was quite a gal,” he said again. “We got a real kick out of her.” He sighed and went silent.

  “We’ve kept you captive long enough, Kate,” Betty said briskly. “Why don’t I take you around to meet some of the others?” As I stood, Betty scooped up my empty teacup and handed it to Jake.

  “I think we’ll start with Rose Bertolli,” she said. “Rose has been in this neighborhood for almost as long as we have.” She counted on her fingers for a moment. “Must be close to twenty years ago she moved in with her husband, Frank. He’s gone now. Died a couple of years ago. Rose just loved Sarah. Sarah helped her out a lot after Frank passed on.”

  We walked across the street toward Rose’s house. As we walked, I asked Betty if she had noticed any visitors at Sarah’s house right before her death.

  “No, I didn’t, dear,” she answered with a sly look in my direction. “I do wish I had now. Those policemen asked the very same question. And that nice young man from the newspaper—”

  “Felix Byrne?” I broke in, stopping short in the middle of the road. Betty stopped with me.

  “Why, yes,” Betty answered mildly and looked into my eyes.

  “Sorry I interrupted,” I mumbled. “Go on. Please.”

  We both continued toward the house on the other side of the road.

  “The hedges around Sarah’s house were so high,” Betty explained. “Once a car was inside them, you couldn’t really see it.” She sighed. “I wish we had kept a better eye on her.”

  We walked up the short driveway to Rose’s rambling white stucco house in silence. Betty was about to ring the bell when a wiry, grey-haired woman in an electric blue caftan shot through the doorway. I assumed this was Rose. She immediately grabbed my hand and started to pump it vigorously. She looked familiar to me.

  “You must be Kate, Sarah’s friend,” she said, still gripping my hand. “I can’t tell you how much Sarah meant to me. Her death—I mean transcendence—has been an incredible learning experience.” She dropped my hand. Her voice gained volume. “I’d been going through a heavy growth period when Sarah turned me on to my own power. It changed my life. I now realize I am an unlimited human being. I can do anything, be anyone, have anything!”

  Rose paused in her declaration and looked at me expectantly. I guessed that she wanted validation that she’d said the right things, the positive things that Sarah would have liked to hear.

  “Sarah must have really inspired you,” I offered.

  “Oh, yes,” she said earnestly. She clasped her hands together. “I’d love to help you on any book that you might write about Sarah. She taught me the truth about positive thinking, creative visualization, universal abundance. Oh, so many things! She was a great teacher.”

  “Did you visit Sarah often?” I asked, trying to remember where I had seen Rose before.

  “No, she usually visited here,” Rose answered quickly. “Sarah was a great healer, you know, a truly holy woman.” She looked at me expectantly again.

  I stood there, smiling foolishly. Rose’s enthusiasm had derailed my planned questions. And even if I remembered my questions, they would probably be answered in positive-speak, which meant I’d have to translate simultaneously.

  I had learned to translate Sarah’s statements over the years. “I’m going through a growth period” stood for “I’m miserable.” “My body is cleansing” meant “I’m sick as a dog.” A “learning experience” was a “bummer” updated. I wondered how I could best ask this Sarah devotee about murder. Maybe I could ask if she had any idea who “guided Sarah in her transcendence.” Betty rescued me from the awkward moment.

  “Rose works in the local health food store, you know,” she said conversationally.

  “Oh, that’s where I know you from!” I burst out. That was one mystery solved. “I thought you looked familiar. You’re the organic vegetable lady.”

  “That’s me,” Rose said. She mugged a big smile. “I’m the afternoon carrot-juice queen. Would you believe I never worked outside of my home before I met Sarah?”

  I shrugged. Rose went on.

  “Sarah was the one who pushed me into going to an assertiveness class,” she told me. “And now I have a part-time job!” Not enough to pay the mortgage on that house, I thought.

  “And my house is paid off,” she said as if in answer to my thought. She opened her arms wide in an all-encompassing gesture she must have learned from Sarah. “I have investments creating abundance and I am free to create whatever reality I choose.”

  “Did Sarah introduce you to her dog, Freedom?” I threw
in casually.

  “Yeah, Freedom. The super-pooper.” Rose’s shoulders slumped. “That was going to be my next project in assertiveness. I was going to tell Sarah to do something about that dog. It’s hard to be assertive with someone as advanced as Sarah, though,” she said in a softer, wistful tone.

  “Amen,” I agreed spontaneously.

  “I would have, though,” she added, brightening. “I can do anything I put my mind to.”

  I nodded my understanding and thought about leaving. I wasn’t up for any more positive-speak.

  “You’ve given me a wonderful view of Sarah,” I told her. “Thank you.” I reached out and shook Rose’s hand once more.

  Rose gave me the high sign, then turned and strode positively into her mortgage-free house.

  Betty and I rambled down the street to the next home. Large pine trees surrounded this square redwood-shingled house. The chimney, porch and porch swing gave it a comfortable vacation feeling. I was sure Jake wouldn’t approve of the overgrown yard, but Betty seemed adjusted to it. She led the way up the dirt path and lifted the brass knocker.

  The door was answered by a solemn, blond little girl with large hazel eyes.

  “My mama is in the bathroom peeing,” she enunciated carefully.

  “And what’s your name?” I asked.

  “My name is Tayu Amanda Johnson-Jekowsky,” she answered carefully. “I am four years old.”

  I hoped Tayu’s mother would arrive soon. I had a feeling the child was close to exhausting her conversational resources. At Betty’s suggestion, we pulled up a couple of wooden folding chairs and sat on the porch, while Tayu stood guard at the door. A buxom, blond woman emerged from the house soon after we were seated. Her hair was cropped close to the scalp. She wore paint-speckled blue jeans and a woven top that looked Guatemalan.

  Betty introduced her as Marianne Johnson, filled her in vaguely on the purpose of our call, and then sat back in her chair, smiling. The ball was clearly in my court.

  “What can you tell me about Sarah?” I asked.

  “Sarah was a far-out lady,” Marianne said in a surprisingly deep voice. “We worked together on the Nuclear Free Marin campaign. She had a real sense of global responsibility, of the ecological consequences of our actions.” She paused and glared at me. “Except where it came to her shitting dog.”

  “Damn shitting dog,” interjected Tayu. Her mother smiled fondly. Tayu continued in a slow, clear, high-pitched voice. “People must learn to be responsible for their shitting dogs.”

  “Tayu is absolutely right,” Marianne said. “It always amazed me that Sarah could be so clearly on the path and still be irresponsible about Freedom. I told her someday we’d barbecue that dog, but she just laughed.” She tapped her foot angrily.

  “We’re going to barbecue some dog meat,” announced Tayu.

  Marianne’s foot stopped tapping. She chuckled. Tayu continued to stare at us solemnly.

  “But other than that, the woman was definitely enlightened,” Marianne continued, her tone lighter now. “She even bought some of my weavings. Not very many people appreciate them.” She sighed. “It’s hard to believe Sarah’s gone. Do you know if the police have made any progress?”

  “No,” I confessed. “If they have, they haven’t bothered to tell me.”

  “They questioned all of us, you know,” Marianne said. She nodded toward Sarah’s house. “But it was hard to see what went on at Sarah’s. Those hedges were too damn high. I hope the whole thing is cleared up soon. I don’t like the idea of a murderer running around.” She tapped her foot again. “My weaving is definitely off.”

  “So you assume that Sarah was murdered?” I prodded.

  “It seems obvious to me,” she replied brusquely. “And that reporter said it’s what the police think.” Felix again, I thought as Marianne continued. “You only had to meet Sarah once to know it couldn’t be suicide or an accident.”

  “Exactly what I said to Jake,” added Betty.

  “Do either of you have any ideas about who did it?” I asked. There was no use pretending any longer that I was writing Sarah’s memorial.

  They both shook their heads glumly.

  “Was anyone in the neighborhood upset enough about the dog to kill Sarah?” I pressed. The question sounded foolish the moment I asked it.

  But Marianne treated it seriously. “No,” she replied with a frown. “If dog shit were the cause, the murderer would have killed Cynthia, not Sarah. Her and her six dogs. It’s ridiculous! But most people liked Sarah. Pretty much, anyway.”

  It was more than an hour of fruitless conversation later when Betty and I said our goodbyes to Marianne and Tayu. Betty looked as discouraged as I felt as we headed back across the street to the home of the infamous Cynthia Voss, owner of six dogs.

  Cynthia was an athletically built young woman with large moist brown eyes. She invited us into her dog-scented house and told us all about her pets as soon as we were seated. I could hear the pets in question barking and whining as they banged against the closed kitchen door. I wondered how long it would take them to break the door down. I led the conversation back to Sarah as fast as I could.

  After a few polite phrases about Sarah’s death, Cynthia bent forward and whispered, “I’ve been worried about that man who came to Sarah’s house.”

  My adrenaline started flowing. “What man?” I demanded.

  “The one that took Freedom,” she answered. “He said his name was Peter something-or-other—”

  “Was he tall, thin?” I interrupted.

  She nodded impatiently and continued. “I’m afraid he won’t take good care of Freedom.” Concern radiated from her brown eyes. “Dogs need lots of love, and he didn’t look like a man who loves dogs to me. I could take on Freedom if I had to.”

  “Don’t worry, Peter will take care of Freedom,” I assured her as my excitement drained. Peter was responsible, if nothing else. And I would let him know about Cynthia’s offer.

  Cynthia looked unconvinced. She lectured on dogs and their needs for a full fifteen minutes. I was trying to figure out how to extricate myself when Betty looked at her watch and rose from her seat.

  “It’s been so nice visiting with you, Cynthia,” she trilled and led the way out the door.

  Betty spoke more quietly as she walked me back to my car.

  “I really did love Sarah,” she told me. “She livened things up so. And she had a wonderful spirit. I certainly hope your memorial investigations bear fruit.” Her eyes scanned my face for a moment. “I just couldn’t bear the thought that we’ll never know what happened,” she said finally.

  We talked by my car a little longer, then parted with mutual promises not to be strangers. Once Betty had walked back through her gate, I looked over at Sarah’s house. How could I get in? I wanted to see the inside of her house one more time, not only to investigate, but because it would be my last glimpse of the heart of Sarah’s home. I stood and stared at the fish-trimmed hedge. Then I heard a voice behind me.

  “I really wouldn’t do it, dear. The neighbors here are so nosy… and the police wouldn’t be amused.” I turned to look at Betty. “Here are those rosemary cuttings I promised you,” she finished.

  “You’re a lot sharper than you pretend,” I told her. “I can see why you and Sarah got along.”

  Betty’s cheeks grew a little pinker with the compliment. She grasped my hand for a moment, then gave me the cuttings. I slid into my car, waved and drove away.

  On my way home I saw Jerry’s van still parked where I had seen it earlier. I braked and pulled over to the curb. I was tired of missing opportunities to talk to my gardener. If he had any information for me, I wanted it now.

  I jumped out of my car and marched up to the van shouting, “Jerry!”

  No one yelled back. Damn. I had yelled loud enough to reach the yard. Where was he?

  I walked around the van and saw the answer to my question.

  - Seventeen -

  A body lay fac
e down in a bed of impatiens and alyssum. A litter of broken pink and white blossoms obscured the body’s edges.

  “Jerry?” I whispered, trying to persuade myself that I was seeing a man who was merely asleep.

  But the body was too still, the limbs positioned too awkwardly for sleep. And the back of the head didn’t look right. It was misshapen under the blood-matted hair, like dough that had risen improperly.

  “Jerry!” I called out urgently. The body didn’t move.

  My brain was buzzing with adrenaline, my vision preternaturally clear. A voice in my head told me that I was looking at Jerry’s body, Jerry’s dead body. But I didn’t want to believe the voice.

  I stepped across the impatiens and knelt down beside the body, crushing more blossoms. I took a deep breath and forced myself to reach for his wrist to check his pulse. But my hand stopped before touching him. It jerked back as if it had a will of its own.

  Then I noticed something moving on his head and neck. What were those black specks? I bent closer. Ants! Jerry was covered in ants!

  I jumped up and staggered away, willing myself not to vomit. I came to a stop on the other side of the van. I leaned up against it, comforted by the cold metal against my forehead. Then it came to me. The killer might still be here.

  I whirled around. I couldn’t see anyone. I strained my ears. I couldn’t hear anyone either. I told myself I had to call the police.

  I ran to the front door and rang the bell. There was no answer. I tried the doorknob. Locked. I stood on my tiptoes and ran my hand along the top of the lintel, hoping for a key. Nothing. Frantically, I yanked the doormat up, dislodging a rock. There was nothing underneath the mat. But the rock felt strange when I picked it up to replace it. It was too light. Then I realized it wasn’t a rock at all. It was plastic, molded to look like a rock. And there was a compartment on its flat bottom. I slid the cover open and found a key.

  I felt a brief surge of triumph when the key opened the front door. It was enough to carry me through the dark house as I searched for a phone. I found one in the kitchen and called the police.