“Are you kidding?” I yelped.
“Listen to me, Ms. Jasper. Noah’s giraffes, I’ve got two murders on my hands, and you call me about a traffic accident in Horquillo? And you ask me if I’m kidding?”
“This wasn’t a traffic accident!” I screamed. “Someone tried to kill my husband.”
“Were you there?” he asked me accusingly.
I took a deep breath. I was seeing pinpoint dots in front of my eyes in colors that would have been more appropriate to the Sixties.
“Captain, I was not driving the car in question,” I replied, hoping my voice was calmer than the rest of my body.
“Ha!” he shot back. “Tell that to the guys in Horquillo.” And then he hung up.
I walked into the living room. Aunt Dorothy and Wayne were both on the denim couch with expectant faces.
“Captain Wooster feels that the Horquillo Police Department has jurisdiction,” I summarized.
Dorothy just nodded. She was not a woman to say, “I told you so.” Not out loud, anyway.
“He what?” Wayne asked, squinting his eyes.
“He’s nuts!” I moaned.
“Oh, right,” he murmured calmly. Maybe he was seeing pinpoints of color, too, but at least Wayne sounded calm.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“Oh, now, Katie, don’t you be sorry,” my aunt told me. “You did your best. And our Captain Wooster is missing a few berries from his basket.”
Wayne stood up and put his arm around me. “Plus, you did save my life,” he added. “A small thing, maybe, but I appreciate it.”
I felt my mouth curve into a smile then. The tension rolled away from my body, leaving me as limp as a Beanie Baby.
“Well, I’ll let you two youngsters have some peace,” Aunt Dorothy announced. “I’m going back to my hotel for a nice, hot bath.”
It wasn’t until Aunt Dorothy’s car pulled out of the driveway that I began to cry. But once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. And then Wayne was holding me. He might have been crying too, or maybe I just splashed tears on his face. We just held each other, bruises and all. And then we were kissing. And cuddling. And then we were back in bed, where we’d started the day an eternity ago.
*
Sunday morning, Wayne and I woke up simultaneously, groaning—not from lust, but from sore, aching bodies. It was lucky we’d made love the night before because showing each other our bruises wasn’t exactly erotic. But then again, neither of us was afraid anymore.
The phone rang while I was examining a black and blue spot on Wayne’s backside. It was the size and shape of Brazil.
“I’ll get it,” we both said.
Amazingly, Wayne bowed, letting me do the honor. I didn’t have time to be suspicious as I threw on a robe and headed to my phone just in time to hear the answering-machine tape end and Garrett Peterson say “hello.”
“Garrett,” I greeted him, grabbing the receiver.
I wanted to talk to this man. We had something in common—hit-and-run. Did Wayne’s close call the night before have anything to do with Garrett’s sister’s final call years before? Would I have the nerve to ask?
“Kate?” Garrett said, a slight lilt to his deep, slow voice. “It seemed important to call, to take some action.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmured, feeling very therapeutic.
“I think it’s time for another meeting of the group. And not just the members. I…well…”
“You want all the suspects there,” I put in.
There was a brief silence. Garrett did realize that all the members and their sigos were suspects, didn’t he? Even if he didn’t know about the key, he had to realize the implications of the deaths. And then I reminded myself that I really didn’t want him to know about the Jaguar key because the only way he could know about it was if he’d stolen it himself. And I truly liked Garrett.
Finally, he replied, his voice barely audible. “Yes, I suppose I mean the suspects.”
“Garrett, do you think you know who did it?” I asked.
“No, no,” he told me. He sighed much more audibly than he was speaking. “Jerry told me about your aunt’s theory. But I have no idea. I just need to talk to everyone. To see them react with my own eyes. If one of us did this thing, I want to know. I need closure.”
“So you want the group to meet—”
“See you in a few minutes!” Wayne called out.
I looked up and saw my sweetie at the door, fully dressed. How had he done that so fast?
“Hold on a minute, Garrett,” I ordered and put my hand over the receiver.
“Wayne, where—”
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” Wayne assured me, or tried to assure me.
“But—” I protested.
Wayne was out the door before I could even finish my objection.
“Are you okay, Kate?” Garrett asked me.
His voice invited me to confide in him. No, I wasn’t okay. Wayne was going out without me. Was he going to investigate? Why did he run out so fast? But Garrett was the man who took on everyone else’s problems. I wasn’t going to make him take on mine.
“Fine,” I lied, hearing the Toyota start up and leave as I did. “So, when do you want the group to meet?”
“Today?” Garrett suggested. “Maybe I could reach everyone by late afternoon. I know it’s short notice, but still, it’s Sunday.”
Maybe I’d be able to reach Wayne by then. Damn. Where had he gone?
“Sounds fine to me,” I agreed.
“Is Wayne okay?” Garrett asked softly.
“What do you mean?” I shot back. My skin tightened on my bruised body. Did Garrett know about last night’s car assault?
“The murders must be affecting him, Kate,” he answered slowly and clearly, as if addressing a mental patient. I knew the tone; I’d used it myself years ago when I’d worked on a psych ward. “I know Wayne’s a very sensitive man.”
“Oh, right,” I muttered. “Um, you know Jerry was over here last night—”
“And told you all about my sister,” Garrett finished for me, his voice speeding up. “I know I should have shared information about my sister with the group, but it was so long ago, and the others had more current problems. It didn’t really seem appropriate. Still, I wasn’t trying to hide anything.”
“Some things just hurt too much to discuss in a group?” I guessed.
“Yes,” he agreed simply.
“It’s all right, Garrett,” I told him, wondering if it was all right with Wayne, too.
“Thanks, Kate,” he replied. “Wayne’s lucky to have you.” And once again, paranoia made me wonder if he was talking about the car that had aimed for Wayne last night. I rolled my sore shoulders impatiently, as if I could roll away my suspicions.
“And Jerry’s lucky to have you,” I reminded him. “You know, I’ll bet Jerry wouldn’t mind if you leaned on him for support more often.” Me, the Dear Abby of the Heartlink men’s group. There was something about Garrett that brought out the inner meddler in me.
Garrett was silent for a few heartbeats, then he spoke seriously.
“You’re right,” he conceded. “I’ve got to start paying better attention to Jerry.”
“Well, anyway…” I said, suddenly embarrassed by my meddling. Then we talked about the proposed afternoon get-together. We worked out details, and Garrett promised to call the others, and finally, I hung up the phone.
Wayne hadn’t returned by the time I’d finished talking. But then, a half-hour hadn’t gone by either.
I went to my desk, still in my robe. Paperwork awaited me. A workaholic tipple would get me through the time left before Wayne returned. Invoices, ledgers, checks…The choices were endless.
Within minutes, I was working on invoices, but my mind continued to hum with questions. I hadn’t planned to leave Wayne’s side until I found out who was driving the black car, until I found out who’d murdered Steve Summers and Isaac Herrick. But Wayne had escaped. And for what? A half-hour wa
sn’t long enough to go into the city to work. It certainly wasn’t long enough to investigate. What was he doing?
My mind was so loud that I didn’t hear the door open at first. But a swishing sound caught my attention—the sound of a lion slithering through tall grass.
I jumped out of my chair and ran toward the entryway.
But the tall grass wasn’t grass, it was flowers—a huge bouquet of flowers: gladioli, irises, roses, Shasta daisies, cosmos, and more, swishing toward me. I couldn’t even see the lion.
And then the flowers bowed my way.
‘To the superiority of fast reflexes over somber thoughts,” a deep voice intoned, and then the flowers were standing again.
I opened my mouth to yell at the homely face that peeked over the top of the flowers, but his worried eyes stopped me.
“Damn, you’re cute when you’re flowers,” I drawled in my best Mae West voice.
Wayne smiled shyly, and I remembered again why I loved him.
“Didn’t know how else to thank you,” he mumbled.
“I thought you did a fine job last night,” I reminded him.
He blushed. Too bad I was too bruised to make him really blush.
We’d finally found a vase big enough for the flowers when Wayne mentioned Ann Rivera, my friend who worked as a psychiatric hospital administrator.
“She might know Garrett,” he reminded me.
“Lunch?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he breathed We were a team again.
I got on the phone and convinced Ann to go to lunch with us. Ordinarily, Ann would have preferred a feast cooked by Wayne’s own hands, but Sundays were always busy at the hospital. So, she suggested a trip to Eco-Eats, a vegetarian place near her work. We agreed on a time, and I hung up. Then I remembered Aunt Dorothy, the third member of our team. Wayne promised to call her and shooed me into the shower.
The hot water stung my bruises, but after a while it eased the sore muscles in my neck and back. I leaned into the water and luxuriated, and smiled secretly at the naive sweetness of my husband.
A few hours later, Aunt Dorothy, Ann Rivera, Wayne, and I were seated at a table at Eco-Eats. Our table mats were woven, not paper, and our waitpersons weren’t persons at all, but Disneyesque endangered species. We’d been shown in by a sad-looking panther and were being read the specials by a six-foot spotted owl.
“…avocado-tempeh burgers, six-grain pilaf, and stuffed zucchini with lemon-walnut sauce, and our soups today are mushroom-miso and basil-bean.”
Wayne gave a little grunt beside me. Eco-Eats was not his kind of restaurant. Wayne managed to put up with vegetarian food, but only the best vegetarian food.
“I’ll give you a little time,” the spotted owl said and turned in a flurry of scruffy plumage.
“So, you know Garrett Peterson.” My aunt Dorothy returned to the subject at hand once the owl was out of earshot. We’d all taken turns filling Ann in on recent events and suspects while we were still in the car driving to Eco-Eats.
“I certainly do know Garrett,” Ann answered. “He’s a visiting psychiatrist at our hospital. And let me tell you,” she shook a finger here, “Garrett is one of the kindest men I’ve ever known. You can take him off your suspect list right now.”
“You’re a loyal friend,” my aunt encouraged her.
Ann relaxed into her linen suit, her brown face breaking into a toothy grin.
“Okay, so I’m a little biased,” she admitted. “If Isaac wasn’t dead, I’d think he had a hand in this mischief in some way, though.”
“You knew Isaac?” I asked.
“Isaac was a man you couldn’t not know in the therapeutic community,” she told us. “And he was a real joker.” Her face turned serious again. “I never really figured him out. He was smarter than he acted, that’s for sure.”
Aunt Dorothy nodded solemnly.
Ann sat back in her woven hemp seat, her eyes unfocused and thoughtful.
“Did you tell me that the mother of the Kimmochi girls said Steve spent a lot of time with them?”
I nodded.
“Well, if you’re looking for motive—”
“Have we made up our minds?” the spotted owl interrupted us.
We all jumped.
Ann and I got the avocado-tempeh burgers. Dorothy decided to try the stuffed zucchini. Wayne played it safe with the miso soup and a vegan chef’s salad. We all ordered herbal iced tea, and our owl shuffled away. I wondered how hot it was in that bird suit.
“Have you guys considered sexual molestation?” Ann interrupted my thought.
“Huh?” the three of us replied.
“Steve, the Kimmochi girls,” Ann reminded us impatiently.
“But Steve was Mr. Clean,” I objected, “ethical at the least—”
“You ever notice how these religious leaders are always the ones fooling around when they shouldn’t be?” she shot back. “Child molesters don’t wear signs.”
“Steve was very quiet,” Wayne offered. I didn’t know if this was an indictment or a character reference.
We all sat in silence for a while. Steve Summers as child molester. I shook my head, and realized that I was still sore from my dive and roll the night before. Still, I didn’t buy it. Steve was too self-righteous to bring himself to do something so despicable. He’d have killed himself first. And then I wondered if he had killed himself, had somehow planned his own death. But who’d killed Isaac Herrick? And why?
Our food arrived before anyone voiced any more arguments, pro or con.
The avocado-tempeh burger was stuffed with onions and hot mustard, and it was good, despite Wayne’s unspoken disdain. The thought of Steve Summers as a child molester was less appetizing.
We all left Eco-Eats in a more sober mood than that in which we’d entered its ecologically correct doors.
Dorothy and I began to talk once we’d dropped Ann off at the hospital—theories, second theories, conjecture. Could Steve have been a child molester? Wayne cut in authoritatively after a few minutes.
“No,” he stated. “It’s not possible. Steve Summers couldn’t have done it.”
Dorothy looked thoughtful, but said nothing. I don’t think she believed his absolute no, but she didn’t state any further opinion.
“Do you think Isaac’s most recent book is in print?” she asked instead.
We both turned to look at her.
“When people write, they leave clues. I wonder if Isaac left any.”
So we went to a local bookstore in Mill Valley, far away from Horquillo. The woman behind the counter found the book for us and rang it up.
Then she leaned over the counter and whispered, “You know, his wife really wrote his books.”
So much for Isaac’s secret.
When we left the store, all three of us turned both ways and scanned the lot before crossing to our car, and we saw a red Miata. It was gone before we could see the driver. Had it been Van Eisner?
And if it had been, was Van stalking us?
None of us had to speak those thoughts aloud.
But, even if it was Van Eisner, would he have used his own car? I remembered the black car from the night before and tensed.
And then someone honked.
- Nineteen -
Dorothy, Wayne, and I all jumped in place in perfect synchronization. We could have been the Rockettes.
“Are you guys coming or going?!” a masculine voice bellowed out the window of an SUV. “Jeez, you’re standing there like cows!”
In watching the red Miata, we hadn’t noticed the other moving vehicle in the lot. Now, it honked again, veered around us, and sped off.
I wanted to run after it like a dog and rip off its bumpers, but I knew I wasn’t fast enough.
The three of us walked cautiously across the lot to the Toyota. I took the wheel once we got there—my car needed its true owner’s loving touch once in a while.
The engine died the first time I started it up. I swiveled my head around to lo
ok at Wayne. It hadn’t died on him. Could the car really prefer Wayne to its true owner? Could Wayne have alienated my auto’s affections? Jealousy isn’t a pretty thing, especially when it’s over a car. I decided not to challenge Wayne to a duel. Instead, I pumped the Toyota again and turned the key, and we were on the road. Maybe the car had just been sending me a little reminder of how much it had missed me.
“I can’t help but think that Van Eisner is the obvious choice for murderer,” my Aunt Dorothy began from the back seat of the car once we were scudding along the back roads of Mill Valley.
“But is he together enough to plan a complicated murder?” Wayne asked thoughtfully.
“No,” I answered.
“He’s certainly paranoid about his drug use,” my aunt went on. “Could Steve have threatened him with police exposure if he didn’t give up drugs?”
There was a silence in the car. Were both Wayne and I imagining Steve doing just that? It sounded like him, all right.
“Still, whoever planned Steve’s murder found another car, disguised themselves, hit quickly, and disappeared,” I mused aloud. “Can you imagine Van focusing clearly enough to pull it off?”
“No,” Dorothy agreed. “But perhaps he was very lucky. Isaac’s murder didn’t take a lot of imagination.”
“But why would Van kill Isaac?” I asked gently.
“I don’t really know,” my aunt admitted. “Isaac was an intelligent man; perhaps Isaac figured out it was Van and challenged him with the knowledge.”
I just wished Ann was still with us to help with this analysis. Because as much as I would have liked the murderer to be Van, I still just didn’t believe it. Van was an insensitive womanizer and a bumbler, not to mention a man with a drug problem, but he didn’t strike me as a murderer. Then again, none of the suspects struck me as a murderer. I sighed and guided the Toyota home.
Once we got there and saw who was waiting on our front doorstep, I let out another sigh. Felix was back.
“Howdy-hi!” he greeted us as we trudged our way up the stairs.
Wayne and I mumbled mixed curses.
Only my aunt said, “Hello, Felix.”
But it wasn’t my aunt that Felix wanted to talk to. It was me. Lucky me. He practically dragged me through the door after I opened it, ranting incoherently.
A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 21