Most Likely To Die
by Jaqueline Girdner
Copyright © 1996 by Jaqueline Girdner
Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.
www.ereads.com
KATE JASPER MYSTERIES
by Jaqueline Girdner
Available from E-Reads
ADJUSTED TO DEATH
THE LAST RESORT
MURDER MOST MELLOW
FAT-FREE AND FATAL
TEA-TOTALLY DEAD
A STIFF CRITIQUE
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
A CRY FOR SELF-HELP
DEATH HITS THE FAN
MURDER ON THE ASTRAL PLANE
MURDER, MY DEER
A SENSITIVE KIND OF MURDER
For Greg
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to Neal Ferguson for sharing his expertise as a forensic specialist. And to Barbara Kempster for sharing her expertise as a police dispatcher and former emergency medical technician. And to Eileen Ostrow Feldman, my intrepid first reader. I couldn’t have written this without you guys!
Please note, any mistakes in these areas are due to the author’s fevered imagination and not to Neal’s, Barbara’s, or Eileen’s generous words of guidance.
Where Are We Now
Gravendale High School
Class of 1968
Hirsch, Charles (Charlie)
Author of six books for children featuring plucky Rodin Rodent, the seafaring rat of many colors. Most recent book published: Rodin Rodent and the Parrot Pirate. I also garden.
Jasper, Kate Koffenburger
Run my own small business, Jest Gifts, a mail-order gag gift company. Spend the rest of my time indulging in vegetarian gluttony, practicing tai chi, and loving sweetie Wayne Caruso.
Kanick, John (Jack)
My beautiful and talented wife, LILLIAN, and I own KARMA-KANICK AUTO REPAIR here in Gravendale. Have two children, LARK and JOSH. Still see mom, AURORA, often.
Myers, Mark
My life’s gone to the dogs since I last saw you. And to the cats, the birds, and a bunch of other critters. I’m a veterinarian! Also active in the AIDS Action Committee and Gay Men’s Chorus.
Nusser, Natalie
B.S. CS/EE, M.I.T. ‘72. M.B.A., U.C. Berkeley ‘86. Have worked in the arenas of aerospace design, electronics, computer programming, and computer chip design. Currently own and manage midsize computer software company.
Ortega, Pamela (Pam)
Local girl makes librarian! I’ve worked as a city, county, and corporate librarian. Am now managing librarian for WILDSPACE, a nonprofit organization dedicated to the preservation of the planet and its plants and animals.
Semling, Sidney (Sid)
Hey, what can I tell you! Survived Vietnam. Now a handsome, high-paid rocket scientist. Just kidding! Thought I’d get the ladies interested. I AM single though. And a super salesman. Can I sell you something?
Timmons, Elaine Semling
I am happily married to husband ed timmons (for over fifteen years), the mother of three gifted children, and head secretary of a growing computer software firm, as well as being an active participant in Sonoma County politics.
Vogel, Rebecca (Becky) Burchell
Jeez, would you believe I’m an attorney now? (Personal injury.) Still love to party! Single mom of david, “D.V.,” 15.
Weiss, Robert
Deceased.
- One -
“Louie Louie” was exploding from the loudspeakers, doing its damnedest to compete with the screeches of a few hundred forty-some-year-olds. And I was sweating all over my best-occasion velvet jumpsuit, dancing with Tommy Johnson—no— Jenkins, a kid I hadn’t seen in twenty-five years.
“Roar, roar, mmm wawwa mo—”
At least I thought it was “Louie Louie.”
I threw my arms out in the spirit of ‘68 and executed a free-form twirl under the disco lights. A tendril of crepe paper caught me halfway through, flapping onto my moist forehead and sticking there for a moment, then pulling away with an intimate little suck as I completed the turn. The spirit of ‘68, all right.
“The hotel even did the decorations in Gravendale High colors!” Tommy shouted, pointing at the profusion of purple and red streamers floating under the pulsating lights. Tommy smiled, exposing the gap between his otherwise perfect teeth. “Cool, huh?”
“Yeah, cool!” I screamed back, wondering how a kid that had looked like Alfred E. Neuman twenty-five years ago could have turned into such a good-looking man. Well, not all that good-looking, I told myself guiltily, and glanced over his short shoulders at my sweetie, Wayne. (Twenty-five years might have done a lot for Tommy’s looks, but they hadn’t added any to his height.)
Wayne was holding his own, gyrating in place across from Gail something-or-other, another classmate I hadn’t seen in twenty-five years. And a woman he ‘d never met before in his life. Of course, Wayne hadn’t gone to Gravendale High School. This was my twenty-fifth high school reunion. But Gail had looked so damned lonely as the other couples had stood up to make their way onto the dance floor that I’d whispered to Wayne, “Ask her to dance,” without even thinking. Then I’d watched the ambivalence play out on his homely face. Wayne was used to rejection based on nothing more than his low brows and cauliflower nose. But he was a sucker for anyone needy. So he took a big breath and popped the question. When Gail leapt out of her chair with a big smile of acceptance, I knew it was worth it. A two-for-one cheer-up special.
Actually I was feeling surprisingly cheery myself, out there wiggling my ever-widening hips on the dance floor, sweating all over the most expensive outfit I owned, and feeling some—just a few—of the layered remnants of my teenaged pain, self-consciousness, and insecurity slip-sliding away.
The music felt better too that night than it had twenty-five years before. “Wooly Bully,” “Dancing In The Streets,” “Shotgun,” and “Satisfaction.” All I remembered from official high school dances were the Beatles and the Beach Boys.
A few hours ago, Wayne and I had come rushing in late to the ballroom of the Swinton Hotel, nervously snatched a Where Are We Now? booklet from a smiling reunion organizer, and plopped down randomly at the nearest big round table to have dinner. I’d only remembered about half of my tablemates. And they’d changed. Tina Reilley, who’d been so shy and plain that I’d worried about her, was currently a gorgeously glowing physicist. Not glowing from radiation, I hoped. And former troublemaker Frankie Weems was a corporate attorney. Actually, maybe he hadn’t changed.
But no one at the table had been from my old gang of friends. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. For a moment I’d wondered why I’d seen so little of the old gang in all these years. Not to mention the rest of my former classmates. But I didn’t come up with an answer.
After dinner, the music started. And hunky Jim Hernandez asked me to dance. And then Zack what’s-his-name. And then Tommy. And suddenly I was glad I hadn’t given in to my initial impulse to rip my reunion invitation into tiny pieces and flush them down the toilet. I certainly hadn’t been this popular in high school. So I danced, telling myself I’d hunt later for the people I’d hung out with twenty-five years ago. I already knew my old best friend, Patty, wasn’t going to be here. And there had been over five hundred kids in my graduating class. It wouldn’t be easy to separate out the fifteen or so of them I’d been really close to. If any of them were even here.
“Louie Louie” ended abruptly, and suddenly I could hear people talking around us.
“This is my fourth husband, he’s a keeper…”
“And white lipstick. And those awful madras shorts…”
&
nbsp; “I cheated off you in third grade, do you remember? I copied your paper, but I copied your name too…”
“Thanks,” I panted to Tommy. Not only was I soaked with sweat from dancing but my legs were wobbling. And my ears were ringing.
“You always were a really cool dancer, Koffenburger,” Tommy said. And then he shouted as another song began, “Wanna do it again?”
It sounded like “Brown Sugar.” And Tommy had said the magic words, “really cool dancer,” even if he had used my dreaded maiden name, Koffenburger. You would not believe all the bad jokes that can be made out of a name like Koffenburger.
I looked over at Wayne. He was still dancing with Gail. What the hell, I decided. My legs were going to hurt tomorrow anyway. I kicked them out in a fancy two-step and started swinging my arms and hips again. And thinking about my old boyfriend, Ken.
Had Ken thought I was a good dancer? Ken who had driven a motorcycle—really a motorbike—but it still had seemed romantic. Ken who had sported shoulder-length brown hair by the time he had disappeared into the cosmos of communes after his first year at Stanford. Ken who—
I looked guiltily over Tommy’s shoulder at Wayne again.
Was Ken here in the Swinton Hotel ballroom? I danced faster, avoiding crepe paper. Probably not. I had yet to see even one person from the old gang. I smiled across at Tommy and wondered why he hadn’t been part of the group I’d hung out with so long ago. They’d been a mixed crew. A bunch of kids who were smart, maybe smarter than Tommy, but not necessarily super-smart. Kids who were a little on the wild side—that was probably the answer. Tommy had been pretty straight. And most of us had thought of ourselves as hippies, or at least near-hippies, as we banded together to eat lunch on the front lawn and split into smaller groups to talk intimately and earnestly. About sex and society, the Jefferson Airplane, our parents, sex, the Grateful Dead, the war in Vietnam, drugs. And sex again. We even talked about love. And peace, of course. Lots of talk. Very little action.
The Rolling Stones screamed to an end, giving way to the sound of people chattering around us once again.
“I’m really feeling dislocated, you know, I don’t mean to be a downer, but my therapist said…”
“Remember when we found that shark on the beach and put it in the swimming pool…”
“Your hair has changed, but your aura is just the same as it always was…”
“That was really great, Tommy,” I said after I caught my breath. “You’re a real cool dancer yourself.”
He smiled widely this time, revealing the full extent of the gap between his teeth. With a little jolt, I realized I might have helped him shed a layer of insecurity. It was so easy to forget that other people were vulnerable too. I gave him an impulsive, sweaty hug and then watched as he walked away under the pulsating lights, limping. It looked like I wasn’t going to be the only sore ex-dancer tomorrow. Then a woman’s voice from behind me caught my ear.
“Whatever happened to Robert Weiss?” she asked someone.
“Don’t you remember?” that someone answered. “He blew himself up, right before—”
My whole body clenched. I remembered. I couldn’t not remember.
Because Robert Weiss had been one of our group, a talented boy: theatrical, artistic, and elegant. A boy who’d loved magic. He’d promised us all a fireworks show on the weekend before graduation. And he’d given it to us, wearing his top hat and black cape, pulling festoons of light from inside the cape’s folds, then making sparklers appear from our ears and our pockets and our noses. Gradually, he’d worked up to the big rockets. Really big rockets, bought out of state. And for the grand finale, he lit the biggest one of all and stepped back. Nothing happened. A frown creased his elegant face as he stepped forward, bending over the malfunctioning rocket to pick it up. It blew up then, blasting away his shoulder and his heart in a huge roar of light and sound and blood.
I don’t know how long it was before I realized it wasn’t a trick and began to scream.
Twenty-five years later, I shivered under the pulsating lights of the Swinton Hotel ballroom and remembered why my initial impulse had been to rip up my reunion invitation. I felt sick. Sick and cold. I wanted to go home.
I lifted my head to look for Wayne.
But suddenly I couldn’t see anything. Even the disco lights blacked out as someone’s large, rough hands covered my eyes.
- Two -
I turned on my heel the instant I realized those rough hands were blinding me, my adrenaline flowing into tai chi. My paired knee to the groin and fingertips to the throat were almost as automatic. But by the time I got there, the hundred-and-eighty-degree turn had pulled the hands from my eyes and brought me face-to-face with my attacker. Face to laughing face.
I halted my knee’s ascent abruptly, just grazing the loose material of his pants crotch, and let my hand drop as if I’d been merely waving. Then I just stared. Because I recognized that laughing face. A broad face with high cheekbones, a wide nose, small close-set eyes, and a big fat grin. My heartbeat began thumping its way back to normal.
“Whoa, Katie, it’s me!” the face with the grin shouted. If there was anything I hated worse than being called “Koffenburger,” it was “Katie.” Then he threw his big rough hands out as if to embrace the universe and laughed again. Did he have any idea how close my knee had come?
Apparently not. He tilted his head and asked in an affected lisp, “Does the name Sid Semling perhaps refresh your memory?” before crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.
God, it was Sid. Sid Semling, master prankster. Sid with about seventy or eighty more pounds on his big, broad frame, but Sid nevertheless. In a flash, I remembered a few dozen pieces of hilarity sparked by his constant jokes, teasing, and pranks. And a few dozen more chunks of misery. Damn. Sid would be the first person I’d see from the old gang.
I closed my gaping mouth, then opened it again to greet him. “Of course, Sid,” I mumbled, but most of my reply was lost in a new blast of music, probably “Proud Mary.”
“Lookin’ good, Kate!” Sid shouted, undaunted by the cacophony. Then he ran his eyes down my short, A-line body and back up again under the pulsating lights. “At least you’ve kept the lard off. Me,” he patted his ample stomach, “AAA puts out special Sid Semling guidebooks for fat cells. Group tours available.”
A smile jerked at my lips. I couldn’t help it.
“You know what they say about a fat man though?” he went on with a leer. I had no doubt the question was a setup for a punch line that would be both sexual and offensive. Though possibly funny too. That was the trouble with Sid.
“No, what do they say?” a deep voice asked from behind me. Wayne. I reached back and took his hand. I didn’t have to look to know it was him. Or to know that his glare was so deep that his eyes were lost under the cliff of his low brows.
“Jesus, when did they let King Kong out of his cage?” Sid yelped, jumping back in feigned fear.
Or maybe not so feigned. It wasn’t just Wayne’s brows that were scary. He had over six feet of karate-trained muscles that seemed to throb with menace when he was in protect mode. A helpful habit developed from years of work as a professional bodyguard. Not so helpful in social situations however.
“Wayne Caruso, Sid Semling,” I introduced briefly, telling myself if Sid made any more fun of Wayne, I’d finish the knee kick.
The two men grunted and shook hands without further incident. Maybe Sid had grown out of the joy-buzzers he used to carry.
“So you’re her…” Sid let the sentence dribble out suggestively.
“Her fiancé” Wayne growled as I simultaneously replied, “My sweetie.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Wayne. His brows were at half-mast. Much as we cared about each other, trying to reach agreement about our wedding plans had put a gap between us, one that even showed up semantically.
“Well, hey—whatever,” Sid said easily. “Point is, I’m having a party for the old gang next Sat
urday afternoon at my place. A barbecue blowout on my patio. Party hearty—”
“We’re coming,” interrupted a woman walking up next to Sid.
I stared at her and couldn’t remember her for the life of me. She was small and wiry with a pretty Asian face distinguished by a slightly turned up nose. Then she tugged at someone standing behind her. He was tall and skinny with long dark hair, an equally dark beard, and glasses rimmed in black. But it was his stooped shoulders that gave him away more than anything.
“Jack Kanick?” I guessed.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled and flashed me a weak smile before his gaze drifted away to the dancers behind us.
“And I’m Lillian, Jack’s wife,” said the Asian woman in a slightly accented voice filled with the enthusiasm that Jack’s lacked. She put an arm around Jack’s waist and squeezed. Jack brought his gaze reluctantly back as I introduced Wayne and myself. Then Lillian went on. “Jack and I are coming to the party. With our kids. And Jack’s mom, Aurora—”
“And Becky Burchell,” Sid cut in. He pointed to a blond woman dancing a few couples away. At least I thought that was the woman he was pointing to. It was hard to tell beneath the flashing disco lights, but I was pretty sure I saw Becky’s delicate features and round blue eyes under a mop of blond permed hair. And it would be just like her to be wearing the sexiest dress in the room, a slinky black number that plunged as dangerously in the front as the back.
“She’s Becky Vogel now. Kept the name, lost the husband,” Sid added. I crossed my arms uncomfortably. He could have said the same about Kate Jasper. “Becky’s a big-shot attorney. But she’s still a friggin’ wild woman, yeah-uh!”
The woman we were watching let out a whoop as if to agree.
Most Likely to Die (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 1
