I kept quiet and waited for more.
“Prosperity consciousness. Bullshit!” Vivian shouted. She turned her head away from me again. But I could still see the angry sneer that twisted her face as she stared across the room.
“All the time telling me to ‘just open up to the universe.’ Asking me why I was blocking my own success. And then, finally, she got disgusted with me because I chose to be poor.” Vivian pounded her fist on the thick carpet. “She turned her back on me, goddammit! No more pep talks. Just ‘Clean my house and shut up.’ I was the fuckin’ hired help again.”
Vivian turned her head toward me once more. Her eyes were glazed, her face distorted by rage.
“Prosperity consciousness, when I can barely afford to live in Marin!” she cried. “My whole apartment is smaller than Sarah’s living room.”
Then suddenly all the anger, all the spirit, seemed to drain from her. Her body slumped, deflated. She dropped her gaze to the floor.
“It was the same thing when I was in high school,” Vivian explained in a subdued voice. I wasn’t sure if she was explaining to me or to herself. “I went to Woodside with all the rich kids. Only I wasn’t rich. They all lived in nice houses, like this one.” She waved her hand. I noticed the well-appointed living room for the first time.
“There were only a few of us from across the tracks,” Vivian droned on. “I remember inviting one of the rich kids over to my parents’ apartment. She couldn’t believe our whole family lived in an apartment. Apartments were for when you moved out from home, for fun, not for families.”
As she continued, her speech grew more slow and monotonous, her eyes unfocused, rounded and shining. She was seeing something I wasn’t. I couldn’t control the shudder that came with the realization that I was no longer watching my friend Vivian, but a murderer.
“I could steal the clothes to keep up, but it still wasn’t the same,” she said quietly. “They still had the cars. And the dates.”
Her torso spasmed suddenly, as if someone had grabbed her shoulders and given her a quick shake. Anger came back into her voice. “And then Sarah with her new investment program,” she snarled. “Do you know how much money you can make off of something like that? And she was already rich. She didn’t deserve it. I deserved it. I know computers backwards and forwards. But nobody will hire me ‘cause I’m self-taught, a hacker. I have a right to just one break, don’t I? Just one good program?” She looked into my face, searching for something, maybe approval, then turned away again, disappointed.
“It should have been mine,” she insisted sullenly. “So I took it.” The spirit seemed to have left her voice again. It was flat as she continued her story. “Sarah noticed somehow. She asked me if I’d been at her computer. I told her I hadn’t, but she didn’t believe me. She just smiled that weird-ass smile of hers and told me to be careful what reality I created. Said she’d take legal steps if I tried to sell her program.”
“It’s worthless, you know,” Vivian sighed, turning to face me again. She looked tired, haggard even. But at least her eyes were seeing me. “Totally worthless without channels of distribution. That’s what my brother-in-law said when I took the program to him. He said it was too dependent on the intuition of the average investor.” She shook her head. “No software house would touch it. He said if someone had already established channels of distribution, it might make some money. But for me, nothing.
“Worthless, all worthless. I thought maybe Nick and me…” she trailed off, her face softening a little as she spoke of Nick. She stroked her own cheek with one hand absently. “But, no, not even Nick. All worthless.”
“So you programmed her robot to kill her?”
“Yeah, I did,” she answered, her eyes narrowing. “But I warned her first. I sent her a message. I taped it from an old Bette Davis movie.” Vivian laughed bitterly. “Sarah ignored the message. She never even mentioned it. So I decided to kill her with her own fuckin’ robot.”
Vivian’s eyes searched mine again. I couldn’t approve, but I was beginning to understand. It’s all too easy to insist that success is a matter of will when you’re successful. The concept must have felt like salt on an open wound to Vivian. She was the outsider looking in, gazing at the lush fruits of success from the vantage point of poverty. Relative poverty, I corrected myself. Vivian wasn’t poor except by Marin’s standards. I stroked her shoulder gently, wondering what had drawn her to a place where she would always be relatively poor.
“I wasn’t really sure the robot would kill her,” Vivian said softly. “It was kinda like flipping a coin. If it did, I thought maybe it would mean I deserved the program, deserved success.” She shrugged her shoulders, “if it didn’t, I thought maybe it’d be sorta a joke, you know.” She shook her head sadly. “But it worked. The one thing I do right in my life, and it’s wrong. God, when I found her body I was so sorry, but it was too late.”
She clapped one hand over her face and began to sob again, more quietly this time. I put my arm around her shoulders.
“What about Jerry?” I asked after her tears had subsided.
Vivian jerked her head up. “I heard his message on your tape,” she explained, her husky voice full of mucus. She stared out across the room, unseeing. “You never rewound it before you left. So I did it for you after I finished cleaning. I had to listen to the old messages to make sure I didn’t erase anything important.”
She sniffled loudly. I handed her my Kleenex. She paused to blow her nose, then went on in a near whisper.
“Once I heard Jerry, I knew he must have seen me working at Sarah’s computer while she was gone. I spent a lot of time at her computer, copying her stuff and programming the robot. I even copied her will. Nobody from the outside ever would have noticed me in there. But Jerry was working inside the hedges.
“I went to talk to him. I knew where to find him. He always did Bolinas Avenue on Mondays.” Her body tensed as she remembered. “He said no problem, he wouldn’t tell anyone about seeing me if… if I’d sleep with him. I don’t think he knew I killed Sarah. He just thought I stole from her. And he was an ugly toad!” Her hands clenched into fists, bunching up the muscles on her arms. “I climbed onto the bed of the truck and hit him with his own shovel. The fucker deserved it!”
Her eyes were wide and unfocused again. I was frightened. I took my arm away from her shoulders carefully.
“I’m going to call the police now,” I said as calmly as I could.
“Yeah, I guess you have to,” she responded lifelessly.
I called the Marin County Sheriff’s Department and told them I was sitting with the murderer of Sarah Quinn and Jerry Gold.
I could hear excited voices and sounds of scurrying in the background. As police cars were dispatched I was advised to leave the house and leave the house fast. The voice on the line assured me that they would take care of things from here on out. I thanked the voice politely for the advice, hung up, and went back to sit with Vivian.
“Did you set my woodpile on fire?” I asked as I sat back down a few yards away from her. I kept my tone easy, friendly.
“Yeah,” she answered sullenly. “I had to. You wouldn’t stop nosing around.”
“But I could have been burned alive!” I protested, my tone no longer easy.
“No,” Vivian said, shaking her head. Her eyes filled with hurt. “I knocked on your door and made sure you were awake before I left.” She extended a hand toward me, but I was sitting too far away for her to touch. She drew her hand back and sighed.
“You’re my friend,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have killed you. I just wanted you to stop.”
I heard the truth in her sad voice. I scooted closer and reached out to her. She grasped my hand for a moment, then let it go.
“Did you try to kill me with a potted plant?” I asked. I had to know.
“What the hell are you talking about?” she demanded irritably. I was relieved by her tone. She sounded like her old self again. Then I h
eard the police sirens.
“Did you shred my macrame?” I pressed her.
“Jesus, ain’t it bad enough that I’ve killed two people?” Vivian drawled. “Now you wanna blame me for your macrame.” She even managed a wan smile.
Vivian and I stood up together. I put my arms around her and hugged her tight as the police cars sirened up the driveway. She was shaking in my arms. I heard the sound of running footsteps and released her gently. Vivian’s eyes looked like a child’s as they widened with fear and uncertainty. My insides knotted.
In no more than an instant, the Kornbergs’ house was filled with the noisy activity of police and Sheriff’s personnel. A couple of uniformed sheriffs separated me from Vivian and took me into the shining stainless steel, glass-and-ceramic kitchen. I could smell the herbs and garlic that were artistically festooned on one wall and the cleanser from the recently scrubbed sink. Poor Vivian.
Exhaustion tugged at me then. I sank into a steel-and-leather chair and lay my face down on the table. The tabletop was made of glass. I could see my own chair-flattened thighs through it. That seemed grossly unfair. One of the sheriffs, a good-hearted Asian man, asked me if I was okay and offered to get me a cup of coffee.
I was explaining my viewpoint on coffee as a form of poison when I heard a commotion outside. I looked through the kitchen window and saw two sheriffs escorting Vivian to a waiting car. Her muscular body looked small and vulnerable between the two six-footers. The sudden gush of tears that flowed from my eyes seemed unconnected to me. But I knew then that I would mourn the loss of Vivian even longer than the loss of Sarah.
As I watched the Sheriff’s car carry Vivian away, I noticed someone else. Wayne. He was standing in front of a burly uniformed policeman at the end of the driveway. The policeman had one hand on his gun and the other hand held out, palm forward. Wayne’s face was unreadable at that distance. But the hunch of his shoulders told me that he was angry.
I stood up and walked to the window quickly. I waved both my arms at Wayne, semaphore fashion. His shoulders relaxed. His wave back was exuberant.
I heard new voices behind me. I turned and saw Sergeant Feiffer and his dog-faced sidekick. Feiffer pointed toward the chair I’d been sitting in. I blew Wayne a kiss, then sat back down.
Sergeant Feiffer looked tense. I wondered whether he was going to yell at me some more. But he didn’t. He just asked me to tell my story in my own words. When I explained why I had suspected Vivian he kept nodding as if to say, “I know, I know.” Then I wondered if he had known, or had at least guessed, that it was Vivian all along. Hadn’t he said that he had ideas, but no proof, from the beginning? When I got to the part where Vivian flung herself over the vacuum cleaner cord, the sergeant’s sidekick cleared his throat.
“I guess her karma just caught up with her, huh?” he said in a low and sincere voice.
Sergeant Feiffer groaned and walked out of the room.
He never came back. Another less friendly Sheriff’s sergeant marched in with a tape recorder. Then the real interrogation began. It was almost two hours later when he finally let me go. I promised to sign a written transcript of my statement the next day.
Wayne was waiting for me outside.
He held me for a long time. When I finally drew back, he bent over and looked into my eyes.
“I’ll be there whenever you’re ready,” he growled softly.
He climbed into his Jaguar and rolled out past the iron gates before I could say I was already ready.
- Twenty-Five -
“Heavy,” Tony murmured. His voice was barely audible over the whoosh and gurgle of the circulating water in the hot tub.
So far that Sunday afternoon, “heavy” had been his only comment on my account of Wednesday’s confrontation with Vivian. Tony was listening, though. His sincere face declared his attention and concern without words. Unfortunately, his new rainbow Mohawk was sending another message. I pulled my gaze away from his hair and slid deeper into the hot water of the tub. Maybe in time I would get used to the multicolored fan of spikes that divided his otherwise shaved skull. But I wouldn’t bet on it.
Peter bent forward in a posture of impending interrogation. Drops of sweat shimmied down his nose and into the water. Peter hadn’t limited himself to one comment. Objections, arguments and questions had spouted from his mouth concerning each and every piece of my story.
“I can’t believe you were foolish enough to go alone to confront a woman whom you believed to be a murderer,” he lectured peevishly. “What is wrong with you, Kate?”
“Vivian was my friend,” I answered sullenly, wondering why I had said “was” instead of “is.” I hadn’t really believed Vivian was a murderer until the Windex had hit me in the face. “Anyway,” I told him, “Wayne was there.”
“That’s another thing,” he pressed. “What was Wayne doing there?”
“He was following me in his car,” I explained. “When he heard the police cars he thought…”
I faltered. What had Wayne thought? We had spoken by telephone four or five times since Wednesday, but our conversations had been superficial—chitchat on my side, monosyllables on his. Neither of us had mentioned either of the two “M” words, marriage or murder. I hadn’t invited him to see me in person yet. I wasn’t prepared to handle the possibility of his refusal.
Peter’s sour voice tugged me back to Sunday once more. “I still don’t understand her motive—”
“Vivian didn’t kill for only one reason,” I interrupted sharply. “Not just for the investment program. Not just for Nick. There were a lot of reasons.” I sank deeper into the tub, letting the hot water flow over my shoulders. “Sarah wounded Vivian deeply. Sarah told Vivian she was entitled, then threatened her entitlement.”
I paused, remembering the hatred in Vivian’s face when she had talked about Sarah. I shivered, wondering how I could still feel so cold while immersed in the steaming water of a hot tub.
“Sarah preached the doctrine of prosperity consciousness,” I said softly, looking down at the swirling water. “Over and over again, she said that everyone was entitled to wealth and success. All they had to do was develop a positive attitude. To create their own reality.” I looked up at Tony and Peter.
Tony nodded. Peter opened his mouth to object. I pressed on quickly.
“Vivian believed in the idea of entitlement literally, like a child believes in fairy tales. So when the magic that Sarah promised didn’t work, Vivian blamed her.” I could almost see Sarah’s grinning face in the steam. She must have driven Vivian crazy. “Then Sarah gave up on Vivian. You know how Sarah acted when she decided someone wasn’t on her path.”
“Like they were invisible,” Peter said softly. Was he beginning to understand?
I nodded and went on. “Vivian was hurting, emotionally and financially. Then she saw a way to get her share of the goodies, by copying Sarah’s investment program and selling it. But Sarah caught her. Vivian wanted that program. And she wanted revenge.”
“But she had to know she might be caught,” Peter argued.
“Vivian isn’t big on long-range planning,” I explained, thinking of her disastrous spur-of-the-moment marriages. “The alcohol didn’t help either.” I didn’t want to talk anymore. I felt so tired. I wondered if I was coming down with something.
Tony reached over to give my shoulder a squeeze. I looked up to thank him, but the sight of his Mohawk stopped me before I got my mouth open. I had forgotten about it again.
“What did Jerry want to talk to you about?” Peter probed. “What did he tell his wife exactly?”
“He told his wife he wanted to let me know that he saw ‘the cleaning lady at the computer,’ “ I answered. “He didn’t say what cleaning lady, or whose computer. And Mrs. Gold didn’t connect the comment with Sarah’s death. She never told the police what Jerry had said.” I shook my head slowly. Jerry shouldn’t have died. Or Sarah. I might have prevented both their deaths if I had been quicker off the mark.
“It wasn’t your fault,” murmured Tony. Was I that transparent? Or had he received psychic powers along with his Mohawk?
I squinted at him. His hair looked better that way. “Thank you,” I said.
“I never considered Vivian as a suspect,” Peter admitted. So that was why he kept arguing with me!
“I didn’t think of Vivian right away either,” I told him. “Though I should have. Programming that robot took time and access, and she was the only one who had plenty of both. Remember Sarah told us that Vivian ‘fancies herself a computer programmer’? Not to mention the fact that Vivian told me the contents of Sarah’s will. The will that was stored on the computer.” I shook my head. I had missed so many clues. Maybe I had missed them on purpose. I hadn’t wanted to believe it was Vivian.
“What’ll happen to her now?” asked Tony.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” I sighed. I hadn’t really wanted to know. “Prison or a mental hospital, I guess.” I closed my eyes. Fatigue was settling down on me again.
“You know, Vivian is going to have one great advantage in either institution,” said Peter in an unusually gentle tone.
“What advantage?” I demanded, opening one eye.
He sat up straight in the tub and smiled. The smile looked good on his sweating face. “I predict she will become the queen of gossip,” he pronounced. “Closed institutions thrive on gossip. She’ll have plenty of subjects.”
“Yeah, really?” I asked, wanting to believe.
“Really,” he assured me. He even reached and patted my knee, then flushed and drew his hand back, probably embarrassed to be caught in an act of kindness.
“Thanks, Peter,” I whispered. My cold hands grew a little warmer as I imagined Vivian regaling rows of inmates with her tales.
Peter cleared his throat. “I have a theory about the seance,” he announced.
“Yeah, what?” I asked.
He steepled his fingertips before beginning his lecture. “Much of New Age conjecture is insensitive to the needs of those who are truly less fortunate,” he elucidated. “If Sarah finally realized this basic concept, she might have realized that she had made a mistake with Vivian, as well as with others.”
Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 25
