Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “I understand,” she said. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was smiling. “Dinner for three, hold the blunt object.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Be careful anyway, kiddo,” she warned. The concern in her tone scared me. When a psychic worries about you, there may be a good reason.

  “So what else did you call about?” she asked.

  “What makes you think there’s something else?” I demanded.

  “I can hear it in your voice,” she explained. Some explanation. Psychics!

  “Tony,” I said, giving in.

  “Tony is very centered, very well-grounded,” Barbara responded quickly. “He’d probably be a dynamite healer.” She paused. “So what’s he done that you’re so worried about?”

  “A friend of mine saw him eating at McDonald’s,” I whispered.

  Laughter sang over the phone line. After fifteen minutes, Barbara had almost convinced me that eating Big Macs was not a secret to kill for, even if you did own a vegetarian restaurant.

  A few hours of paperwork later, I stepped carefully up the overgrown pathway to Nick’s house wondering for the four hundredth time if I should be going to dinner with two murder suspects. A big grey cat came tearing out of the undergrowth, ended up almost at my feet, gave me a startled look as I jumped, then turned and scrambled down the path. I reminded myself just what it was that killed the proverbial cat. I stifled a groan and finished the walk to Nick’s front door.

  “Hey, how’s the detective lady?” Ellen greeted me as she opened the door. She gave me a bear hug, then released me. She was wearing a loose embroidered linen blouse over her jeans. Her hair was loose, too, and I thought I detected new makeup. She was looking far more attractive than she had the day of the funeral, living proof that big can be quite beautiful. She motioned me into the hall.

  “I don’t know how Miss Marple is,” I answered flippantly, walking in. “She’s the only ‘detective lady’ I know.” I wanted to squelch the detective reputation, though it was probably too late. I noticed a new picture on the wall in the hallway, a blowup of the Golden Gate Bridge. Ellen’s work, I guessed. “My friend Barbara couldn’t make it, but she sends her regards,” I added quickly.

  “I suppose you’ve left her with a sealed letter, explaining your suspicions and conclusions, to be opened at the time of your untimely death,” Ellen said. Her large body rippled with laughter.

  I forced myself to smile. I wasn’t about to tell her that I had considered doing just that.

  Ellen was still chuckling when she asked, “So what was all the fuss about where Nick and I were Monday morning?”

  “Someone else died,” I explained brusquely.

  Ellen stopped chuckling.

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “Jerry Gold, Sarah’s gardener,” I answered, watching her closely as I did.

  The confidence seemed to drain from her body, leaving her looking stooped and old. She stared down at the space between us, unseeing.

  “It’s not over, is it?” she asked in a small voice.

  “No,” I told her. I hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from Ellen. What was she thinking? Was she afraid that Nick was the murderer? Before I could ask her what was going on, she straightened her shoulders and came back to life. She even smiled again.

  “Enough of death,” she said, her tone a bit too hearty to believe. “I’m on vacation.” She pointed a thumb toward the kitchen. “Nick’s been really sweating to do you up a vegetarian meal,” she said in a lowered voice. “He’s really trying, right? He’s a good kid.”

  “What’s with you and—”

  A loud clanging interrupted me. It was followed by some assorted thumps and bangs.

  “Does he need to do all that to cook?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s not Nick,” Ellen told me. “That’s Vivian, your crazy cleaning lady.” Ellen tapped the side of her head with a finger. “Vivian called Nick and asked if he needed any cleaning done, right? So he agreed. She offered him some good rates.”

  “She did?” That didn’t sound like Vivian at all.

  “Cheaper than she charges you, I’ll bet,” Ellen said.

  “Probably,” I agreed. Something crashed in the next room. “Is Vivian mad or something?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Maybe you oughta ask her,” Ellen suggested.

  Vivian stomped into the hallway on cue. “What are you doing here?” she snarled as she came toward us. Her eyes looked strange, wide and unfocused, more than just drunk. I could see why Ellen had called her “crazy.”

  “I’m here for dinner,” I mumbled, feeling a surge of gratuitous guilt.

  “I wanna talk to you. Alone,” Vivian growled. She waved a bottle of Lysol bathroom cleaner pointedly in Ellen’s direction.

  Ellen took the hint. “Be my guest, so to speak,” she said, bowing at the waist. She swept her hand toward Vivian grandly.

  I followed Vivian down the hall and into a small, Spartan bedroom in the back. I sat down on the single, straight-backed chair. Vivian remained standing. She began to pace in her agitation.

  “You know that woman’s probably a murderess,” she hissed, waving the fist that still held the bathroom cleaner. “And now she’s got her big fat hands on Nick. She’s old enough to be his mother. She’s talking about them moving in together! Taking him to New Jersey, slime capital of the United States!” Vivian’s eyes moistened.

  “Are you interested in Nick?” I asked with sudden comprehension.

  “So what if I am!” Vivian burst out. She dropped the cleaner and wiped her eyes angrily with the back of her hand. “I’m a lot younger than that bitch out there. You wouldn’t believe her. Jokes about everything. It’s enough to drive you nuts.” She sat down on top of the narrow bed and crossed her arms. “And the bitch doesn’t invite me to dinner. No, not me, not the hired help—”

  “How about lunch with me again, tomorrow?” I interrupted softly. “We could go out if you want to.”

  “What?” she asked, looking up at me, confused by the change in subject.

  “Lunch tomorrow,” I repeated.

  She stood up again. “Thanks for asking,” she muttered. “But I probably can’t. I’m squeezing in a quick once-over for the Kornbergs at lunchtime tomorrow. Twelve to two. They’ve been outa town for the week, but they’re coming back tomorrow night.” The anger had gone out of her voice. “Their daughter got engaged to this Born Again Christian, so they went back East to talk her outa it. I’ll bet they come back converted.” She chuckled at the thought.

  “At least you’ve got your sense of humor back,” I said. I stood up and put my hand on Vivian’s shoulder. “Listen, I really would like to go to lunch with you soon. When you come on Monday, let’s arrange it.”

  “Okay,” Vivian mumbled. Then she looked me in the eye. “You don’t have to, you know,” she said with a touch of hostility.

  “I know, I’d just like to,” I tried to reassure her. She looked unconvinced. “I’ve been doing more socializing lately,” I insisted. “And you’re not just hired help to me, all right?”

  “All right,” she repeated hesitantly.

  I gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “I’ll see you Monday,” she said brusquely. Then she picked up the bathroom cleaner and shook it menacingly. “Watch out for Ellen,” she growled. “I don’t trust her.”

  I followed Vivian as she stomped back down the hallway into the living room, where she gathered up her cleaning accouterments. She was out the door a few moments later. I wandered into the kitchen to find my hosts.

  “Whoooee!” Ellen was singing to Nick, one hand on her jutting hip. “Does that girl have a crush on you.”

  Then it hit me. Vivian had a motive for murder. I was looking at him.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Nick bawled. A new-looking powder-blue jogging suit hugged his muscular body nicely. But his handsome face was flushed a beet-red. Was this man worth killing for? Could his gorgeous body make a woman
forgive that trombone of a voice?

  “You don’t have to do anything, honey,” Ellen drawled. “You just have to stand there for women to go nuts over you.” Apparently his body was worth his voice as far as she was concerned.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick boomed. He hung his head.

  “Hey, don’t be sorry,” Ellen said. “You’re gorgeous, like a work of art, you know.” Her tone was amazingly gentle.

  He brightened at the mention of art. “It’s okay?” he asked at top volume. I heard the tinkle of glass vibrating on the shelves.

  “It sure is, honey,” she said and playfully punched his bulging biceps. “Tell Kate what you’ve cooked.”

  He turned to me. “I made brown rice,” he announced proudly. His voice wasn’t quite as loud as before. I wondered if the volume was stress-related. “Sarah always said there was no way to mess up brown rice. And I made a salad. And I made guacamole dip,” he said, reciting the list like a child. Like a large, loud child, actually. “And Ellen bought some of those brown-rice crackers. You can eat those, can’t you?” he asked anxiously.

  “I love brown-rice crackers,” I assured him. “I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to.”

  “Oh, good,” he boomed. I winced.

  “Let’s eat,” Ellen suggested.

  Nick helped us into our chairs at the table. Had Ellen taught him this new behavior? He poured us tea and brought out the guacamole and crackers. Only then did he sit down himself.

  “The Lord helps those who help themselves. So help yourselves,” Ellen wisecracked. Nick gave her a lopsided grin. Ellen gazed back at him fondly.

  I took a sip of tea, then dipped my cracker into the guacamole. Nick eyed me anxiously as I tasted his creation.

  “Great guacamole, Nick,” I pronounced. He relaxed into his chair. He dipped a cracker himself and took a huge bite. Guacamole dribbled onto his jogging suit.

  “Do you stay here at home most of the time?” I asked him once he had swallowed. I knew he did, but I needed a lead-in to the more specific question.

  I saw Ellen stiffen. But Nick nodded without a sign of concern and fixed himself another overflowing cracker.

  “Yesterday morning?” I probed.

  “Oh, I worked real hard yesterday,” he said, his voice rising to its customary level. I was getting used to his volume. It was no longer painful, just annoying. “On my new sculpture, all day.”

  Ellen relaxed visibly after his answer.

  “Wanna hear a new joke?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “This koala bear goes to a house of ill repute…” she began. After that joke she told another. And another. Nick laughed dutifully at all the right places. So did I. After a few more, Nick cleared the empty guacamole bowl and brought the salad and brown rice to the table.

  “Nick is quite a find,” Ellen said, watching him serve up our meals.

  “A real house-spouse,” I agreed.

  “He wants to go back to New Jersey with me,” she said. Her eyes were sparkling. “He’ll be able to make a new start. I’m teaching him to drive.”

  “And we’re going shopping tomorrow,” Nick bellowed happily.

  “You know, some people shop by computer modem these days,” I said casually, accepting a full plate from Nick. I followed up with the punch line quickly. “I wonder if Sarah had a modem.”

  “What’s a modem?” asked Nick. So much for the casual approach.

  “It’s a device that lets you run someone else’s computer over the phone from your computer,” Ellen explained absently. Her brows were pinched together in thought. “I don’t know if Sarah had one,” she said slowly. “But it makes sense that she would. She would’ve just loved having a state-of-the-art toy like that at her fingertips, right?”

  “You mean you can type on the computer without being there?” asked Nick.

  “Yeah, by phone,” confirmed Ellen. “You know this could mean that anyone might—” Her face tightened. “Kate,” she said urgently. “Do you know if Myra ever had a modem link with Sarah for their old business?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered slowly. “But she still would have had to have known the setup of the robots and the house,” I thought out loud.

  “You mean to kill Sarah?” asked Nick, his voice rising to a volume that shook the room like an earthquake. Glass and metal banged together on the shelves. A colander crashed into the sink.

  Ellen and I exchanged glances. She changed the subject. “Nick’s working on a new theme for his sculptures,” she said cheerily. “Tell Kate about it, honey.”

  “Feet,” he announced, smiling broadly. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier question.

  “Feet?” I repeated.

  His eyes lost focus as he spoke. “Beautiful feet, ugly feet, feet of saints, feet of criminals, rich feet, poor feet, all kinds of feet in all kinds of mediums. The subtle variations could be infinite.”

  His voice lowered and matured as he spoke. The man clearly had a vision. It was not an appealing vision to me, but it was a vision nonetheless.

  “That sounds like a step in the right direction,” I said and dug into the salad.

  “That’s a good one, a ‘step in the right direction,’ “ guffawed Ellen. “I told him it was certainly a well-grounded theme. Starting at the bottom up, so to speak.”

  Nick grinned and joined in Ellen’s laughter.

  We ate our salads and brown rice. We never did get back to the subject of Sarah’s death.

  At the end of the meal Nick brought out some sliced melon for me and Oreos and Cool Whip for Ellen and himself. They dipped their cookies into the topping and munched companionably. They were a good couple. I felt warmed by their company.

  “Don’t take any wooden turnips,” Ellen wisecracked as I left.

  Back home, my answering machine was filled with calls. A singles club had left an invitation to join other singles interested in personal growth, at a lecture on “creating a comfortable relationship with a less than perfect person.” I tried not to think of Wayne. A water purifier company had provided me with information regarding exactly what was in my drinking water. I wished they hadn’t. I was dared to succeed by a corporation offering a home study course in arbitrage and crisis investing. Peter had left a terse order to return his call. And Tony’s gentle tones had asked for a chance to “really talk.”

  I called Tony first.

  “I don’t feel right about keeping secrets anymore,” he sighed. I could hear the clanging of pots and pans in the background. “I need to have a real talk with you, Kate. I could come to your house tonight. Or you could come up to The Elegant Vegetable for breakfast tomorrow.”

  I thought about my choices. An isolated nighttime tête-à-tête with a potential murderer, or a gourmet breakfast in the company of witnesses. I tugged at the tight waistband of my pants thoughtfully. All this eating out was beginning to show.

  “What do you serve for breakfast?” I asked.

  “I usually have three kinds of homemade bread,” he answered. “I’m making millet-raisin and banana-apricot bread tonight, and I’ll do cashew-oatmeal muffins tomorrow. I’ve got all kinds of fruit for fruit-smoothies. Then there’s scrambled tofu and polenta pancakes with fresh blueberry sauce—”

  “That’s enough,” I gave in. So what if my pants were tight. “I’ll be there for breakfast. Are you sure you can take the time to eat with me?”

  “I can always make time for a friend,” he replied, his tone warm with affection. At least I hoped it was affection.

  I tackled Peter next.

  “Are we having a study group this Sunday or not?” he demanded.

  “Damn, I forgot all about it,” I replied.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have,” he lectured disapprovingly. “You’ve taken on the responsibility for hosting these groups. It’s up to you to arrange them.”

  I took a deep breath before answering. I didn’t want to scream at him. “I didn’t take the responsibility,” I explained
slowly and clearly. “Sarah just decided she wanted them at my house, and that was that.”

  “It’s up to you in any case,” Peter insisted.

  I decided it wasn’t the time to tell Peter what a pain in the rear he was. “All right,” I said. “We can meet at the regular time. It doesn’t seem the same without Sarah, though.”

  “I know,” said Peter, his tone softened. “But we need to carry on or the group will just fall apart. Your house at ten, then?”

  “Sounds good,” I agreed. “I’ll talk to Tony.”

  “I’ll call Linda,” Peter offered.

  “No, don’t call Linda!” I burst out.

  There was a silence on the other end of the line, then an apprehensive, “Why not?”

  - Twenty-Three -

  I broke the news to Peter in stages. First I told him about Linda’s profession. He groaned. Then I told him her pen name. I heard his sudden intake of breath clearly over the telephone line. Finally, I told him about the manuscript.

  Peter’s reply wasn’t fit for a judicial aspirant, especially one who has found God recently. But I was glad to have told him as I hung up the telephone, glad to share the burden of worry.

  I sat down to my neglected paperwork and reminded myself that I was a businesswoman, not a detective. But even as my pencil added figures, my mind totted up suspects.

  I woke up the next morning determined to talk to Myra Klein. The combination of Ann’s psychological angle and Ellen’s question about a Word Inc. modem had catapulted Myra to the top of my suspect list. Well, almost the top. There was still Linda Zatara to consider.

  I waited until nine o’clock, then called Word Inc. and asked for Myra. Her greeting was polite but cool when I reminded her who I was.

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right after the funeral,” I said. Just a little deceit in a greater cause, I told myself.

  “Oh, I guess I am,” Myra replied. Her breathy voice grew warmer. “I apologize for not participating in the ceremony, but I just wasn’t clear in my feelings then.” She paused for a moment before rushing through an explanation. “There’s a part of me that’s ashamed of not doing my part. And a part of me that’s still angry with Sarah. But there’s a growing part that has finally learned to accept things as they are.”