Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Marlene finished the last rollers and stuck me under the dryer with a tattered and dated issue of Good Housekeeping. While the hot blast from the dryer fried my head and the back of my neck, I scanned an article about the perils of yo-yo dieting and drooled over recipes for chocolate cake. But I did so with half a mind. The other half was engaged in speculation about Julie’s family friend and her motive for being in Berkeley on an evening when she was supposed to be at the high school football game in Walnut Hills. Was there a connection? And if so, how had it led to her murder?

  Lots of questions, but no answers. Finally, I gave up and went back to my reading. I was well into a survey about men’s sexual fantasies (which, I’m not proud to say, did manage to hold both halves of my mind) when Marlene came over to test a coil of hair. I could tell by the way it bounced back against my scalp that these were not going to be wimpy curls.

  “Okay, let’s comb you out,” she said, shutting off the dryer. Since my former chair was now occupied by another customer, Marlene led me to the second station by the window.

  “You doing okay, Mrs. Burl?” she asked the older woman whose thinning gray hair had been slicked in white foam during the time I was frying under the dryer. “You want a magazine or anything?”

  Mrs. Burl appeared to be asleep, but she obviously wasn’t because she opened her eyes at the question. “What kind of playthings?”

  “Not playthings, Mrs. Burl. I said ‘anything,’ like maybe a magazine or some coffee.” Marlene’s voice was several decibels higher this time, and the words formed with exaggerated precision.

  “A magazine might be nice.”

  When Marlene had set Mrs. Burl up with several publications aimed at an audience half a century younger, she began removing the rollers from my hair. As I feared, the curls were as tight without the benefit of plastic as with.

  “You know,” she continued, as though there’d been only a momentary lapse in our discussion, “if it had been anyone else besides Walt and Patricia, I might have spoken up. I do believe parents should know what’s going on with their children. God knows that’s what I wanted with my own two. But the Shepherds are so ...” She paused, searching for the right word. “So touchy, so firm in their vision of how things should be, that it’s hard to know how they would have reacted.”

  “It’s not easy to know what’s right.”

  “To my mind, they were a good part of the problem. I don’t know about this other side of Julie, as you call it. Maybe she did bend the rules a bit, but she was a sweet girl, level-headed too. If Walt and Patricia had been more accepting, she’d never have had to go sneaking off the way she did.”

  “Sneakers are the best,” piped in Mrs. Burl. “That’s all I wear anymore. I’ll go for comfort any day. Who gives a hoot about style when you’ve got sore feet.”

  “You’re right about that,” Marlene responded.

  I wasn’t overly fond of the Shepherds myself, but given what I’d learned recently, it seemed Julie might have been pushing the limits of what any family would find acceptable. On the other hand, I had to agree with Marlene that I’d seen nothing in Julie that fit with the picture that seemed to be emerging after the fact.

  “Of course, they were strict with their son, too,” Marlene continued. “Though I never got the feeling it much bothered him.”

  “You’re talking about Dennis?”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve met him. And I ran into him again the other day at Macy’s. He sells women’s shoes there.” I waited, for what I’m not sure. A reaction or comment, maybe, that would confirm my sense of something odd about his interest in feet. None was forthcoming. Instead, Marlene squinted at my reflection in the mirror as she ran a brush through my hair. The curls sprang to twice their former size.

  After a moment, I tried again. “I understand he had some emotional problems when he was younger.”

  She nodded. “I guess it might have bothered him, after all. Only he handled it in a different way.”

  “Any idea what kind of emotional problems?”

  “My kids were gone by then, so I didn’t pay much attention.” Another swipe of the brush and I looked like Hillary Clinton at the first inauguration. Not that I have anything against Hillary, but her hairdresser would not be among the names in my Rolodex.

  “What about problems with the law?” I asked.

  “None that I ever heard about.”

  Mrs. Burl leaned forward, the magazines still unopened on her lap. “You got problems with the law, Marlene? It’s that danged government, minding everybody’s business but their own.”

  “Not me, Mrs. B. We’re talking about a mutual acquaintance. Why don’t you just look at those magazines there, and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Marlene pulled the sides of my hair back with an upward twist and pinned them securely against my scalp. “You want my opinion,” she said, “he might well still have some problems.”

  “Dennis?”

  She nodded. “Julie caught him going through her things. She was madder than a hornet’s nest. Not only at Dennis, but at Walt and Patricia, too. They acted like it wasn’t any big deal. I’d forgotten about that. It was over the summer when she was down at my place a lot. Maybe they smoothed things out, but she was absolutely livid at the time. Can’t say as I blame her, either.”

  “Going through her things? You mean personal things?”

  Another nod. “Snooping through her bureau drawers, if you can believe it. She caught him at it red-handed.”

  “What was Dennis’s explanation?”

  Marlene humphed in disgust. “That he was looking for his high school ring, thought maybe it got stuck in one of the grooves or something. About as lame an excuse as I can imagine. And even if it was true, he should have asked first.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “Nothing she could prove. What with the move and all, and she had stuff in storage . . . Well, you know what it’s like when you can’t find something, but you can’t say for sure the last time you saw it either.” Marlene fluffed the top section of curls and pulled a few wisps loose at the temples. Then she took a large can of hairspray and emptied half of it on my head. “There you go, and mighty nice if I do say so myself. You ought to go dangle yourself in front of that husband of yours.” She passed me a hand mirror, then turned the chair slowly for a 360-degree perspective.

  I no longer resembled Hillary Clinton. Maybe a Miss America wannabe from 1963 or Tammy Faye Bakker in a poodle look-alike contest.

  “What do you think?” Marlene asked, clearly more pleased with the result than I was.

  “I ...”

  “You look like a Hollywood starlet.”

  “It’s certainly a new look for me,” I conceded.

  “Looks like rain to me,” Mrs. Burl volunteered.

  One thing was certain, I looked like a woman who’d been to the beauty parlor.

  <><><>

  When I returned home, Faye was working away industriously on Anna’s costume. Max was on the back porch, separated from any prospect of trouble by several securely closed doors.

  I was trying to slink down the hallway to the bathroom where I could stick my head under the faucet when Faye looked up.

  “I like it,” she said, referring to my new do. “It’s more polished. You look like you could be selling cosmetics or something.”

  I scanned her words for a glint of sarcasm, and didn’t find any. “Why would I want to sell cosmetics?”

  “Well, furs then. Whatever. I just meant that it gives you an image. Classy.” She bent back over the fabric. “You had a call while you were out. Your . . . um, your suitor.”

  Suiter? I didn’t even own a suit. “Who?” I asked, puzzled.

  “The policeman.”

  Ah, that I understood. I retired to the bedroom to return the call.

  Michael must have been sitting at his desk because he picked up halfway through the first ring. “We compared the plastic skeletons,�
� he said without preliminaries.

  “And?”

  “The one from your mailbox matches the one found near Julie’s body.”

  I felt the intake of breath against my ribs.

  “Although the things are fairly common, they aren’t as widely carried by stores as you’d think. Lots of places are cutting back on seasonal novelties. There’s apparently not enough profit to justify the space and effort.”

  “But you’re sure they’re the same?”

  “For all practical purposes. That doesn’t mean it’s related to the murder, of course. There are plenty of other explanations.”

  I nodded mutely.

  “Still, until we get a better handle on these murders, I think you should be extra cautious. Libby and Anna, too. Stay in well-populated areas and keep clear of strangers, no matter how innocuous they seem.”

  “Why us? Why our mailbox?”

  “I don’t know that. As I said, it could be unrelated. Then, too, we don’t know that yours was the only mailbox where one of these things showed up. This skeleton business wasn’t mentioned in the newspapers so most people wouldn’t make the connection. They’d simply toss off finding one as a mistake, or at worst, a prank.” Michael was trying hard to be reassuring, but I could sense the uneasiness behind the words.

  “I thought I saw Dennis Shepherd’s car drive by our house the other day.” I waited, and when Michael didn’t respond, I asked if Gates had questioned Dennis yet.

  “He doesn’t answer to me, Kate.”

  “I know that, but. . .”

  But what? Looking at it objectively, there was little about Dennis to raise one’s suspicions. It was more the feeling I got being around him.

  “Julie found him going through her drawers,” I said.

  “Not polite, but not a crime either.”

  “There’s someone else you might want to question as well.” I told him about my conversation with Marlene.

  As I expected, the older man Julie had met near the reservoir caught his interest.

  “You have a description?” Michael asked.

  “No, but I have Nan’s number.” I read it into the phone.

  “Nice work, Kate.” The soft rolling pitch of his voice made it clear the compliment was genuine. “And I’ll talk to her myself,” he said. “Before I pass the information onto Gates, okay?”

  I smiled. My suitor knew how to please. Then I remembered Susie’s appeal for help setting up an interview. “There’s one other tiny thing,” I said slowly.

  “What’s that?”

  I explained. “I’m not asking you to do it, understand. Simply passing along the request. It won’t bother me if you say no.”

  To my surprise, Michael agreed. “If I don’t talk to her, God knows what she’ll write.”

  “Either a sensationalist, panic-inducing piece fit for the National Enquirer or a scathing indictment of the Walnut Hills police force.”

  He laughed. “Actually, I was thinking she’d do both. Have her give me a call and I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise I’ll be able to tell her anything she doesn’t already know.”

  As soon as we hung up, I picked up the phone again and called Susie to give her the good news.

  “Thanks, Kate. This will be a big help. I’ve already done a small article that should be appearing this week, but now I can do a much more comprehensive piece. Maybe I can even parlay it into a major magazine article once the case is solved. This is truly a golden opportunity.”

  I felt my skin prickle. How could a dead girl ever be a golden opportunity?

  “There’s the doorbell,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve got to run. But I wanted to invite you to brunch on Saturday. Nothing fancy. Just a few friends. Michael, too, of course.”

  I dropped the phone into the cradle and went to check on Max, then wandered back into the living room.

  “The dress is just about done,” Faye said. “I’ll fit it to Anna this afternoon and then do the final stitching.” She held up a gown of gold taffeta and chiffon, trimmed in lace. I thought it might be the fanciest dress Anna would ever own, certainly more elaborate than anything of mine. I only hoped Faye wouldn’t be too disappointed when Anna chose beast over beauty for Halloween.

  “Did you check the mail?” I asked.

  “No. I thought it didn’t come until later.”

  It didn’t, but our mailbox had recently assumed a prominent place in my mind, and checking it had become something of a nervous habit.

  I wandered out front, took a breath, and yanked the box open quickly, the way you pull a Band-Aid off tender skin. It was empty save for a stray ant near the front. I brushed him aside, hoping he hadn’t already sent for reinforcements, and felt my breathing return to normal.

  Judy Belson walked by with her twin preschoolers rattling along behind on their Big Wheels.

  I greeted her with a wave. “Your kids didn’t happen to lose a miniature plastic skeleton, did they?”

  She shook her head. “They’re more into bats and spiders anyway.” There was a moment’s pause. “New hairdo?”

  “An experiment. I’m going to wash it out as soon as I get a chance.”

  One of the boys screeched to a halt at my feet. “You like my Ferrari?” he asked, peddling up the driveway with a throaty “Vroom, Vroom.”

  “Mine’s a Mustang,” said his brother.

  Judy laughed. “Until recently it was a Porsche. But he was intrigued by the Mustang parked on our street the other day.”

  “There was a Mustang parked on our street?” It came out more as a croak than a question. “What color?”

  “Same as mine,” the boy said. “Fire engine red.”

  I turned to Judy. “Did you see who it belonged to?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not much into cars myself.”

  “It belonged to a man,” her son said. “And it had a Garfield in the back window. They do it with suction cups.”

  I told myself I was being ridiculous. Mine was not the only house on the street. Dennis was not the only person who drove a red Mustang. And perhaps more important, I couldn’t think of any reason he’d choose to park in our neighborhood. But once the idea was there, it wouldn’t go away. Like the song of the Siren, it masked reason and drew me in. The difference was in the melody. There was nothing pleasurable about it.

  Chapter 19

  I told Faye I had to run an errand and might be gone for the remainder of the afternoon. Then I called Sharon to enlist her help in case I wasn’t back by the time Anna’s school got out.

  “Are you sure,” Sharon asked, “that it was Dennis’s car the boys saw?”

  “No, I’m not sure at all. That’s why I want to see if his Mustang has a Garfield in the back window.”

  “And if it does?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far.”

  “It’s spooky. I mean, if it really was him. Maybe after we saw him at Macy’s, he remembered who you were.”

  “That,” I told her, “is one of the things that concerns me.”

  “Do you think it was Dennis who put the skeleton in your mailbox?”

  I gave an exasperated sigh. “Do I sound to you like a woman with answers?”

  Sharon laughed. “Kate, you always have answers. It’s just that half the time they don’t make sense to anyone but you.” She paused. “He might not be home, you know. What are you going to do then, go around asking his neighbors if they’ve seen a red Mustang with Garfield stuck to the rear window?”

  In fact, that was exactly what I planned to do. Only it was neighbor, singular—Luke Martin.

  Despite the low clouds and heavy mist, the traffic into Berkeley flowed smoothly. It was a good thing, because my mind was on Dennis and what it might mean if I discovered that a Garfield adorned the rear window of his Mustang. I was still lost in thought when I turned onto Sacramento Street, which is why I didn’t see the policeman with the radar gun until after he’d seen me.

  “Any idea
how fast you were going, lady?” The cop was young, probably only a couple of years on the job, but his words held the intonation that comes with authority.

  I shook my head. If I’d been observant enough to know how fast I was going, I’d have seen the stupid radar gun.

  “You clocked in at thirty-two miles per hour.”

  A regular speed-demon.

  “That’s seven over the limit.” He checked my license, then uncapped the pen with his teeth, wrote out a citation. He handed me the narrow slip of pink paper with a gruff, “Have a good day, ma’am.”

  I waited until he was out of earshot to grumble my reply, then drove off well under the posted limit.

  When I got to Dennis Shepherd’s street, I slowed to a crawl, checking the cars parked along the curb. There wasn’t a red Mustang anywhere to be seen. I circled the block to the right, and then to the left. The closest I came was a rusted burgundy Toyota.

  Time for the backup plan, then. A plan that had sounded reasonable enough when I’d first thought of it, but now gave me pause. After all, I knew next to nothing about Luke Martin aside from the fact that he’d caught me tailing one of Dennis’s women friends. Luke Martin might be crazy, or dangerous. He might slam the door in my face.

  But it was the opposite response that worried me most. Would he misinterpret the reason for my visit and think I’d come there primarily to see him? Might there, in fact, be a small element of truth in that?

  Pushing the thought aside, I parked at the end of the block and walked resolutely toward Luke Martin’s house. I’d come all this way and I did want to know about the car. As I neared Dennis’s pink bungalow, I noticed the gravel area at the far end of his driveway, behind the house. Barely visible from the road, but easy to spot from the walkway between the houses, was a red Mustang. And grinning out at me from the back window was a wide- eyed and springy Garfield.

  My skin grew prickly in spite of the cold. So it had been Dennis parked across from my house. But why?

  With a shiver, I started back to my car. After a moment the shock passed and the backfill of mental gymnastics set in. Dennis might have been visiting a friend in our neighborhood, I told myself. Or maybe he’d begun taking piano lessons from Mrs. Doyle down the street. Or perhaps he was simply passing through the area when his car suddenly succumbed to engine trouble.