A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “…so whaddaya think, man?” he asked once he was sitting on the denim couch. “Janis and Jimi, man. Gotta be the Brother. Holy socks, this is the real whazoo, don’cha think? I mean, you were there and everything—”

  “Slow down, Felix,” I told him. I put a restraining hand over his mouth, felt his mustache, and instinctively drew my hand back and wiped it on my Chi-Pants.

  “But Kate, it’s happening, like the pope and his poodle—”

  “The pope and his poodle?” I asked, now hopelessly confused. My brain was swirling in the blender of Felix’s words.

  “Like Cher and Captain Kirk, man,” he expanded.

  I didn’t want to know. I turned away, but that didn’t stop him.

  “Listen to me, Kate,” he insisted. “You were right—Brother Ingenio is for real.”

  I turned back to him. “I never said Brother Ingenio was for real,” I pronounced very clearly.

  “Sheesh, Lucy!” Felix pushed his face into mine. I could smell onions and curry. “You told me he was the Honest Abe incarnation in my dream, Kate.”

  “In your dream?” I asked, the slightest thread of light dawning. “You mean, you think I’m responsible for what you dream?”

  “And Jimi told me, too. Brother Ingenio channeled him, whiz-bang, whoopdee-doo.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I tried. “You believe the words confirming Brother Ingenio’s validity as a…a what?”

  “Like a holy guy, ya know, a visionary, man—”

  “All right, so you believe that the brother’s for real because he told you with his own mouth—”

  “He was only using his mouth to channel Jimi Hendrix, Kate. Jeez Louise, don’cha get it?”

  “Fine,” I said. It was cowardly, but I didn’t want to get into a logic-slinging match with Felix. It would just drive me crazy—or crazier—and it wouldn’t really be logic, anyway.

  “Be that way,” Felix sulked. “Ted believes me.”

  “Ted who?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. I searched my mind for dead Teds. “Ted Bundy?”

  “Criminy, Kate!” he protested. “Ted Bundy’s under the lilies. Ted Kimmochi.”

  It took a second for me to switch gears. I wanted to tell Felix that Jimi Hendrix was as dead as Ted Bundy, but Felix’s words led me in another direction completely.

  “Have you been bugging the suspects, Felix?” I asked.

  Felix raised his eyebrows.

  “Of course, I have, Kate. I’m a reporter, remember? I get the poop. No one else has a clue. Betcha you know who did it, though, right?”

  His large eyes reflected craftiness as he spoke.

  “No, I don’t know who did it, Felix. Do you?”

  “Nah,” he admitted. “My sources are as dry as Martha Stewart’s toilet bowl.”

  “You must know something,” I wheedled, wondering if my own eyes looked crafty now, too—and wondering if Martha Stewart really had a waterless toilet bowl.

  “Well, he did have these two amigos, ya know—”

  “The two reporters at the funeral?”

  Felix nodded. “The dude didn’t have that many real compadres, Kate,” he said. “So tell me about Brother Ingenio—”

  “I don’t know anything about Brother Ingenio!” I blared.

  Felix looked at me with hurt in his soulful eyes.

  “Perhaps you’d like to meditate, Felix?” Aunt Dorothy suggested. “The outdoors are especially nice for meditation.”

  I could have hugged my aunt because now Felix was babbling to her as she led him out to sit under our walnut tree. I watched from the window as Dorothy situated him. Felix sat cross-legged under the tree and a stray green walnut fell on his head.

  “Nirvana,” I muttered.

  Wayne snorted next to me.

  Then my aunt was back in the living room. She was smiling, but somewhere there was an edge of impatience in her face. It was something about the way her chin was raised. Had she been taking lessons from Captain Wooster?

  “Are we doing anything more today?” she asked sweetly. Maybe I’d imagined the impatience.

  Then I remembered the group get-together at Garrett’s. I glanced at Wayne. He shook his head, ever so slightly. My aunt didn’t belong at an extended meeting of the Heartlink group any more than Felix did.

  “Not really,” I muttered.

  Dorothy’s eyes hardened. She’d seen the look and the head-shaking.

  “All right, there’s a group meeting,” I confessed, “but, I—”

  “I understand completely, Katie,” Aunt Dorothy assured me. “The group is for members and sigos only.” My muscles loosened. “I won’t impose. Anyway, I wanted to go over some wedding ideas this afternoon.” My muscles tightened again.

  Dorothy gave me a big hug, announced, “You’ll call me,” and was out the door before I had time to speak.

  Wayne and I plopped down together in the hanging chair for two as soon as she was gone.

  “Let’s try to see Steve’s journalist friends after the group meeting,” Wayne suggested.

  “Good idea,” I answered, but I didn’t get up. Aunt Dorothy seemed to have taken my energy with her when she left.

  “Wayne?” I murmured after a few moments had passed. “What do you think of Felix and Brother Ingenio?”

  Wayne grunted.

  I turned to him. He was blushing. I had forgotten—Wayne was as embarrassed to speak about spiritual matters as he was to speak about sexual ones. He had no problems experiencing either state, but talking about it was another matter. In all the years we’d been together, we’d had less than a half-dozen conversations about what we felt like when we did our separate meditations.

  “Know about contemplation,” he muttered finally. “Read a little. Still, can only go with my own feelings. Just don’t know…” He faltered.

  “But Brother Ingenio doesn’t ring your chimes,” I finished for him. It was too painful to watch him try to explain. “Me, neither,” I let him know. “You know how I meditate,” I went on softly. “Sometimes, I even feel a certain spiritual presence and a sense of peace, but I don’t like to rely on someone else to interpret that presence. No dead rock stars are talking to me.”

  Wayne chuckled.

  I pressed up against him.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting.

  “For…” I paused. I wasn’t even sure myself. “For everything,” I finished huskily.

  And then he blushed again.

  “All right, time to call Steve’s friends,” I declared.

  Wayne almost leapt from the hanging chair to do the deed.

  I heard the rumble of his voice from across the entryway, and then he was back.

  “We’ll see them for an early dinner,” he announced. “Time to go to Garrett’s.”

  I looked down at my watch. It was time. Too bad. I’d have liked to have sat with Wayne and watched him blush a little longer.

  We passed Felix on the way out. He was still under the walnut tree. From the tilt of his body, I guessed he was asleep. Or maybe that’s just how he meditated.

  Going to Garrett’s and Jerry’s house in the San Ricardo hills was usually a pleasure, if only because their home was so arty. The white living room with its black furnishings and black-and-white photos could have been clipped from a magazine. But that afternoon, I remembered that this was where it had all started—this was where someone had stolen Wayne’s Jaguar key from my key chain.

  As we walked into their living room, I looked at those who’d already arrived and wondered if one of them had been the thief. And the murderer.

  The doorbell rang again, and Van Eisner was ushered in.

  Van didn’t look good. His slight body looked even thinner than usual, and his sharp features just seemed to accent his reddened, round eyes. He rubbed his hands together as he looked around the room.

  “Hey, any of you guys tell the cops about my personal habits?” he demanded.

 
; “You’re probably a drug addict, but that doesn’t excuse your behavior,” Ted’s wife, Janet, jumped in. “Back off.”

  Van laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh; it was way too shrill and way too loud.

  “You’re protecting your sweet hubby, and he’s having an—”

  “Janet’s right,” Jerry interjected, his high voice menacing. He’d entered the room carrying a tray of fresh-baked cookies. A warm, sugary smell floated through the air. But suddenly, Jerry looked scary. “Back off, Van,” he repeated Janet’s admonition.

  “Yeah, back off,” Mike Russo parroted from behind Jerry. He stuck out a hand, cocking it like a gun.

  Jerry grinned and turned to the boy, and the menacing man I had seen a moment ago was gone. The roly-poly bear was back.

  “Make fun of me, will ya? See if you get any cookies,” Jerry said to Mike.

  Mike pretended to re-holster his gun and then grabbed two cookies off the tray.

  “You little—” Jerry began affectionately, but Van wasn’t finished.

  “All you guys think you’re so high and mighty,” he complained. “Well, I know secrets, too. So just don’t be telling mine—”

  “Van, no one here wants to tell the police anything but who killed Steve and Isaac,” Laura Summers said. Her deep, quiet voice held a certainty that was soothing. “We all understand your wish for privacy and will respect it.”

  Finally, Van seemed to deflate. He flopped down into a black leather armchair and put his head into his hands, mumbling, “Thank you.”

  The whole room seemed to expand in relief—almost the whole room.

  “So, Ted probably didn’t call the police,” Janet snapped at Van, her hands on her hips. “But I wouldn’t blame him if he did. People like you—”

  Van was out of his seat in less than a second and headed toward Janet. In that second, Ted stepped in front of his wife.

  “I’ll kill her!” Van shouted, and I wondered if my Aunt Dorothy was right after all.

  “Whoa, Van,” Ted said, his arms raised, palms out. “Don’t be so harsh. It’s okay.”

  “But Ted, she—”

  “I know,” Ted commiserated. And I’m sure he did know.

  Janet peeked out over her husband’s shoulder, her face pale beneath her red hair.

  “I’m sorry,” Van muttered, and then he began to cry.

  Ted put a tentative arm around his shoulder. Damn. They really were a support group.

  “Let’s have a time-out,” Garrett suggested quietly.

  Laura Summers took Janet by the arm and gently led her into the dining room. Garrett, Wayne, and Carl gravitated to the other side of the room to huddle. Jerry and Mike headed back to the kitchen.

  I went to the bathroom. I skipped the downstairs one, leaving it open in case someone else needed it. Instead, I went upstairs where I could peek into bedrooms and home offices on the way. Garrett’s office looked much like the living room, in miniature. It had the same white walls, black furnishings, and photos. Only he had bookshelves—shelves and shelves of books so weighty, my mouth went dry and my brain went dead just looking at them.

  Jerry’s office was altogether different. Gadgets, sci-fi and mystery novels, and machine parts were jumbled together in a colorful mess of piles and stacks. Yep, Garrett had decorated the living room, not Jerry. And then I noticed a book on the top of one of Jerry’s stacks: The Deadly Directory, edited by a woman named Derie, Kate Derie. Whoa, that looked serious. I reached for the book—

  “Looking for the bathroom?” a voice asked from behind me.

  I whirled around, my arms jerking up defensively.

  Jerry stood right outside the door. He smiled at me. The smile was pleasant, but still…

  “Neat room,” I croaked. “Cool stuff.”

  “I think so,” he agreed. “Too bad Garrett’s taste is more in the line of organization than chaos.”

  “Heh-heh,” I tried.

  Now I really did have to go to the bathroom. I was just lucky I hadn’t already.

  Jerry showed me the lavatory, done neatly in mauve and white. I closed the door and sucked in the gasp I hadn’t allowed myself earlier. I was shaking. Why did I think I could go sneaking around someone’s house without them noticing? I was just glad Jerry hadn’t caught me in their bedroom, though I was sorry I hadn’t gotten a look at it.

  There’s nothing like an empty bladder to put things back in perspective. Jerry Urban was a nice man. He hadn’t been angry at my presence in his office. I flushed, washed, and marched back downstairs.

  “…today to talk about two murders,” Garrett was saying.

  I looked around the room. Van was sitting on one side, Janet on the other. Everyone else was scattered. I found Wayne and sat next to him on a black couch, sinking into its leather cushions.

  “As a group, we may know who is responsible for these murders,” Garrett continued. “But we must all share information. Let me share that my sister was killed in a hit-and-run accident when I was a boy. This has no bearing on the murder, but I feel negligent in having held it back.”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry, Garrett,” Carl Russo put in. “Must have been really bad.”

  “It was,” Garrett admitted, eyes on the ground. “But I mention it only so that we may all open up. If we get to the root of all our secrets, we may get to the root of the murders.”

  “I did time for car theft,” Carl muttered.

  “You what?” Janet screeched.

  Ted gave her a look. She clamped her lips together. Maybe she didn’t want Carl following Van’s example, flying across the room at her.

  “Long time ago,” Carl muttered on. “No big deal. Not related to the murder. But I’m doing like Garrett said, opening up.”

  “Thanks, Carl,” Garrett whispered and looked around at the group.

  “Um,” Jerry began. “I’m not an actual member of the group, per se, but I guess I ought to tell everyone that I used to be a race car—”

  Jerry’s confession was drowned out by the peal of the doorbell.

  Helen Herrick sailed into the living room. She didn’t look much better than Van. Her usually plump face was gaunt and her eyes were swollen.

  “Are we talking about the murders?” she asked.

  Garrett, Carl, and a few others nodded.

  “Well, I just wanted to tell you, if one of you is the killer, I’ll never, never forgive you,” she promised quietly. “Isaac didn’t deserve to die.” She paused and added, “Nor did Steve.”

  “Of course—” Laura began.

  But Helen put up her hand for silence.

  “And I wanted to let the rest of you know that this doesn’t affect my affection for you.” Tears filled her swollen eyes. I stood up and went to her, holding her as the first tear fell. “I loved Isaac so much,” she whispered.

  The group talked a little longer while I comforted Helen as best I could in the kitchen. Then Wayne peeked his head in.

  “It’s time to go, Kate,” he said softly.

  “But—”

  “Helen, should we visit you later this evening?” he asked.

  “Please,” she murmured.

  And we left.

  But even at the Toyota, we weren’t alone. Mike Russo was waiting for us.

  “Is my dad all right?” he asked as we approached the car. He peeked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “Captain Wuss has him all weirded out.” I snorted back my laughter. “Captain Wuss,” indeed. But Mike went on seriously. “They wouldn’t, like, arrest my dad, would they?”

  “Did he do anything to be arrested for?” I asked, hoping I already knew the answer.

  “No way,” Mike assured us.

  “Then don’t worry,” I told him. “Just tell him you love him.”

  The teenager’s face reddened. “I…I don’t know if—” he began.

  “Or something,” I added quickly. Maybe when Mike grew up and joined his own men’s group he’d be able to tell his father he loved him. I was
sure Carl knew, anyway.

  When we got home, Felix was gone. That was the good news. The bad news was that my answering machine was blinking.

  I hit Play and my Aunt Dorothy’s voice spilled out.

  “Did the group go nicely?” she asked. “Call me as soon as you can. I think I’ve come up with the perfect wedding theme.”

  - Twenty -

  I thought I heard a muffled chuckle behind me, but Wayne’s face showed nothing when I turned around to accuse him. Did he know about this perfect wedding theme? No, I decided, he was probably just laughing at the way all my hair was standing on end.

  “Guess we’d better call her,” was all he said.

  He was right. Aunt Dorothy was not to be left alone for long periods of time with access to wedding books. It was altogether too dangerous.

  “We’re going out to dinner with Steve’s friends from the funeral,” I told my aunt once I got her on the phone. “Would you like to come along?” I was ready to do anything to divert her from wedding plans. Though I did have a glimmer of curiosity as to what she thought a perfect wedding theme might be. Murder? Fear? Wedding phobia?

  “Oh, my,” she breathed. “I’ll be right over.”

  “No,” I told her quickly. “We’ll pick you up. There’s no use wasting two cars. “And that way we could drop her right back at her hotel if she digressed into wedding themes. Of course, I didn’t say that.

  Ten minutes later we drove up to Aunt Dorothy’s hotel. Prompt as ever, she was ready for us in the lobby, dressed to interrogate in a forest green business suit and pearls.

  “So,” I put in quickly once I was safely behind the wheel of my Toyota with Wayne at my side and Dorothy in the back seat. “We’re meeting Steve’s friends at this really cool restaurant. It’s called Mushrooms because almost everything they serve is made with mushrooms, and—”

  “Don’t you want to know about the theme, Katie?” my aunt interrupted. I was shocked. Dorothy was usually far too polite to interrupt, but I suppose she knew she wouldn’t ever have gotten a word in edgewise if she hadn’t. Unfortunately, my shock stopped my mouth long enough for her to insert a whole edge, middle, top, and bottom into the conversation.