“Oh, please, Kettering,” Wenger moaned heavily. “You should have stuck to fingerprints. Remember when you were excited by the little whorls?”
“But people, sir, I like them better. They’re even more complicated.” Kettering bounced on his heels. “And the pathology. We’re on the leading edge here—”
“Well, I’m certainly on edge, Kettering,” Wenger interrupted again. The chief looked like he should have been heading a university department somewhere. The heavy-lidded, intelligent eyes and high forehead were classic. And the sour, just-sucked-a-pickle expression.
“Sir, perhaps if you would be a little more open-minded, we could target our energies more effectively here.”
Wenger shot Kettering a long-suffering look, sighed, and pointed to the group of us, all still seated conveniently on the rug.
Kettering smiled back at Wenger, then turned to the rest of us.
“Well, hello,” he said, with all the enthusiasm of the guy who announces the movie times on the telephone. “I’m Lieutenant Kettering, and this is my boss, Chief Wenger of the Paloma Police Department. It looks like we may have a crime on our hands.” He glanced over at Silk’s dead body and paled a little. I was pretty sure it was the first time he’d actually looked at her. He made a quick comeback, though. “But we don’t just have a crime.” He surveyed us, his face as earnest as a door-to-door solicitor’s. “We have an opportunity. An opportunity to use our skills, telepathic and otherwise. An opportunity to share a profound adventure, an opportunity—”
“Can it,” Chief Wenger ordered, turning to his uniformed officers again.
“Yuki, O’Dwyer!” he shouted. “She dead?”
“Yes, sir,” the two officers answered simultaneously. Simultaneously and expressionlessly.
“Get the crime-scene technicians,” Wenger told them.
“Yes, sir,” they answered again, and O’Dwyer stepped away from his post at Silk’s body, leaving Yuki on detail as he used a cell phone.
“Can I interrogate them?” Kettering whispered to Wenger, loud enough for any one of us to hear him. Maybe he was deaf as well as enthusiastic.
“Fine,” Wenger answered, and Kettering turned our way, all but wagging his tail.
“See those books he’s carrying?” Barbara whispered in my ear, her whisper far lower than Kettering’s. “Thin books, short words?”
“Big type?” I whispered back, trying to keep my lips from moving.
Kettering didn’t seem to notice. Though Wenger glared our way. He definitely wasn’t deaf.
Justine stood up then. A brave woman.
“This is my house, Chief, Lieutenant,” she told the two policemen. “I’m Justine Howe. I called in this, this…incident.”
“Glad to meet you,” Lieutenant Kettering assured her, stepping forward and shaking her hand heartily. “I just want to tell you how interested I am in the field of psychic phenomena. I’m sure we can each learn from one another—”
“Ma’am,” Chief Wenger cut in, his rough voice softer with Justine than it had been with his lieutenant. “Is there another room where we can get comfortable?”
Justine nodded and led us all into her kitchen with a minimum of fuss, dragging Isabelle’s and Elsa’s chairs in with her. The choice of the kitchen as a “comfortable” place must have involved an element of positive thinking. The kitchen had the same knotty-wood paneling and grass cloth motif as the living room, along with white-tiled counters, and an old electric stove and refrigerator, but it wasn’t anywhere near as big as the living room.
“Isabelle, Elsa,” Justine said quietly, gesturing toward the chairs she’d brought with her.
Our two elders sat down obediently. And quickly. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone to be seated. There was barely enough room for everyone to squeeze into the kitchen at all. Wenger grabbed one of the four kitchen chairs. Kettering grabbed another and laid his stack of books down on the table. Linda Underwood propped Artemisia in the third chair. Artemisia definitely needed it. She had chewed off all of her lipstick and her eyes were glazed under her smeared mascara.
“It’s okay, sweetie pie,” Linda cooed in Artemisia’s ear. Did she really believe it was okay?
It did feel better in here, away from Silk’s body, with the smells of fried onions past, and sugar and spices flavoring the warm air. I sniffed, trying to guess what meal had been cooked last in here, while Gil Nesbit took a quick look around and plopped into the last seat as if he were playing musical chairs. That left the rest of us to stand around or find creative ways to sit.
Barbara and I ended up scrunched into the small amount of space on the floor by the kitchen cabinets. Tory perched on a tiled counter. Justine, Zarathustra, Linda, Denise, and Rich all stood. So much for getting comfortable. The kitchen floor was uncarpeted, cold, and hard.
“Well, sonny, getting all excited about this murder, are you?” Elsa asked, turning toward Lieutenant Kettering, her thin voice rasping in a friendly way. At least, I thought it was friendly. It was hard to tell with Elsa. She turned back. Was that a wink behind her bifocals?
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Then his face grew serious. “Of course, I realize a tragedy has occurred, a significant one—”
“Who was killed?” Chief Wenger asked.
“Silk Sokoloff,” Justine answered. Her dark eyes teared up for the first time. Was it just hitting her now? “She was a friend, and a colleague. She was a wonderful character.”
“A kick,” Linda added. “More like a dog than a cat. Romping around all the time. Pushing her nose into people’s faces.” Her voice was almost inaudible when she finished, “We’re gonna miss her.”
Zarathustra turned his head to the wall. Was he mourning Silk’s passing or remembering old grievances? Everyone else looked frozen.
“Who killed her?” Wenger asked, all business now.
“We don’t know,” Justine answered, hesitating for a moment. “I told the woman at the police station. None of us knows. Most of us were masked, and the rest were outside the room.”
“Doing a psychic experiment?” Kettering demanded eagerly.
Justine nodded.
“Most of you were actually wearing masks when she was killed?” Wenger demanded, his voice not so gentle anymore. “Masks without eye holes?”
We nodded as a group.
“Fer Pete’s sake!” Wenger boomed. “You expect me to believe that?”
Then Wenger got down to the real interrogation. Times, places, reasons for being there, relationships to the deceased, etc. He even inspected one of the sleep masks. Kettering took out a notebook and drew diagrams and made lists while his chief grumbled at the answers he was getting. My mouth felt drier, the floor felt colder and harder, and the air warmer and stickier as Wenger pressed on. Finally, he ran to a stop. As far as I could tell, he had covered every fact possible. Would he let us go now? A picture of Wayne flashed into my mind. Damn. I shouldn’t have left Wayne alone so long. I hoped he was all right. I opened my mouth to ask if I could call him, but Kettering was already talking.
“Shall I take it from here, sir?” he asked.
Wenger nodded with a loud, weary sigh. I wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that sigh.
“As you realize, there has probably been a murder here,” Kettering began with a big smile. “And a murderer is by definition pathological. And of a certain type. There are many systems of organizing personality types: astrology, enneagram, numerology, Myers-Briggs…”
I had a feeling I was supposed to be taking notes as he droned on. I might have been in college again, the college of pop psychology. And just like in any college class, some of the students were letting out little whimpers of desperation. Including Wenger.
I leaned back against a kitchen cabinet, avoiding the handle, and let Kettering’s words float over me as I tried to center myself. Calm, I told myself, I needed to be calm.
Because I was in the presence of murder, which implied a murderer. I resisted
the impulse to scan the faces around me once more. And if the presence of murder wasn’t bad enough, someone, somewhere, was going to tell Wenger or Kettering that I was the Typhoid Mary of Murder. If that wasn’t a type, I didn’t know what was. I reminded myself I was trying to be calm and took a long cleansing breath in.
“Psst!” Barbara whispered in my ear.
The breath stuck for a moment.
“I think he’s winding down,” Barbara went on, her voice still low as I coughed and sputtered out my cleansing breath. “Look interested,” she ordered.
I breathed in through my nose and fixed my watering eyes on Lieutenant Kettering’s eager face.
“…so, we’re looking for a personality type. The personality type of a murderer.” He paused. “You all know your astrological signs and birth dates, don’t you?”
“Fer Pete’s sake, look at their driver’s licenses,” Wenger muttered.
“So, who would like to begin?” Kettering asked, oblivious to his chief’s words.
Elsa Oberg cleared her throat. “Well,” she rasped. “Age before beauty and all of that. I’d go first, but then, maybe you should take Isabelle. She doesn’t look so hot.”
I glanced at Isabelle Viseu. Elsa was right. Isabelle didn’t look good. Her skin was grayed in the bright kitchen light, an unhealthy contrast to her wide golden eyes. But she merely nodded when Elsa mentioned her name.
“Thank you, Ms. Oberg,” Kettering said. And he sounded like he really meant it. “And let me say that in your case you have both age and beauty.”
Elsa tilted her head and grinned. Kettering had her.
“Pretty good for an ole lady, eh?” she replied. “Okay, you cute thing. I’m a Gemini. But I’m not saying my birth date. That’d be telling.”
“Just the number of the day you were born?” he cajoled.
“The number?” She looked confused for a moment, her impish face showing its age. Then she grinned again. “Oh, I get it. June sixth.”
“Wow,” Kettering said, and began flipping through the books on the kitchen table, muttering to himself. “Gemini, numerological six, yeah.” He brought his head up abruptly. “Would you say you’re extroverted, confident, energetic?”
“Yes,” Justine and Linda answered as one.
Elsa just winked again from beneath her bifocals.
“I’ll bet you’re an enneagram three, the achiever type, and a Myers-Briggs ENFJ—”
“A what, soldier?” Wenger brought him up short.
“An ENFJ, extroverted, intuitive, feeling, and judging,” Kettering explained.
“Well, I’m glad someone’s having fun,” Wenger growled.
Kettering moved on to Isabelle, whom he tagged as an enneagram nine, the mediator, who might have difficulty confronting or making decisions, a Libra, a numerological seven, and an ISFP.”
This time, Wenger didn’t even ask. He just told Isabelle and Elsa they could leave.
“And check in with Officer Yuki on the way out,” he ordered. “She’ll take your fingerprints and have a look at your driver’s licenses.”
I was glad we weren’t just going to be judged on our personality types alone. Then I wondered if fingerprints showed anything about personality types.
Kettering pounced on Justine next. He waved a book in front of her face, a book by a famous psychic whose very name made Justine groan out loud. That, Kettering heard. And he looked hurt.
“Don’t all you psychics stick together?” he asked.
“Lieutenant Kettering,” Justine answered in her most soothing voice. “Do all of you policemen stick together? Do you all believe the same things? Do you—”
“Wow, I’ll bet you’re an enneagram eight,” he cut in. “That’s the boss, the asserter. Do you always say what’s on your mind?”
Justine shot Wenger a desperate look, but Wenger just rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“Justine does say what’s on her mind,” Linda threw in helpfully. “Even if it makes people mad, sometimes.”
“And what’s your relationship to Ms. Howe?” Wenger asked, suddenly looking more alert.
“Oooh, she’s my sweetie pie,” Linda answered affectionately. “My life’s mate.”
Kettering was rustling through his pile of books again.
“Do you have a book about lesbians in there?” Linda asked. If it had been anyone else speaking, I would have suspected sarcasm, but I didn’t think Linda was capable of sarcasm. “How about something on cats? Cats are very helpful. A lot like people in many ways. Though some people are more like horses. Or dogs—”
“Chief Wenger, the crime-scene techs are here,” Officer O’Dwyer broke in before Linda could finish or Kettering could respond.
“Sir,” Kettering spoke, suddenly standing at attention, books dropping from his lap. “May I go over the scene with them?”
Wenger shrugged his shoulders. I thought I saw an objection in Officer O’Dwyer’s eyes, but then it was gone.
We waited, silent in the kitchen as Kettering joined the crime-scene technicians in the next room.
“Don’t touch,” came floating back from the living room. And then, “Don’t touch, please!” along with Kettering’s excited voice asking questions.
I wondered just why Wenger allowed Kettering the freedom he did. Obviously he didn’t believe in astrology or enneagrams or numerology—Or did he? I looked at Kettering’s boss where he sat, his eyes half closed like a yogi’s. He may have moaned and groaned a lot, but Chief Wenger was still listening to Kettering, and listening to all of us as we answered his lieutenant’s questions.
But Kettering was back in the kitchen before I could answer my own questions about Chief Wenger. And Kettering didn’t even pause for a breath before he took on Gil Nesbit. He typed the Lotto man as a Sagittarius and an adventurer, an enneagram type seven…and a compulsive gambler. That closed Gil’s mouth before he’d barely opened it.
But when Kettering turned his attention to Rich McGowan, accusing him of sixishness, the rules seemed to change. Rich stepped over to Wenger’s seat.
“Chief,” he said, his voice hushed but quivering. “We need to talk for a moment.”
Wenger raised his eyebrows as he appraised Rich. Then he asked, “What about, Mr. McGowan?”
Rich swallowed and jerked his head toward the doorway.
“In private, Chief Wenger?” His question came out as a plea.
Wenger sighed his inevitable sigh, but he stood up from his chair and followed Rich out of the kitchen to the living room. My mind went wild with questions. Was Rich McGowan really some kind of narcotics agent? I didn’t see any sign of drugs at Justine’s. The thought of illegal drugs brought the thought of legal drugs to mind and, of course, Wayne. The doctor had told me he’d be fine alone, but still. It had been over two hours since I’d seen him. Maybe three. What if he needed help? What if—
“I channel an angel named Rogerio, Lieutenant,” Tory piped up, interrupting my oncoming implosion. There was a hint of flirtation in her voice. “And I’m an Aquarius, an enneagram three, an ENFJ, and my birthday is on the thirteenth.”
Kettering looked like a man in love as he turned a goofy smile on Tory, who was still perched on the counter.
“Wow,” he murmured.
“Do you have a book on guardian angels, Lieutenant?” Tory asked.
Kettering dived for the books on the table, but came up dry.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized. “But I’ll get one on angelology right away.”
“Well,” Denise’s slower, deeper voice broke in. “I’m an Aries, and I did a show on enneagrams recently, so I can tell you that I’m a type five, the observer.” Her voice was almost as soothing as Justine’s, but her hands were twisting together impatiently. No wonder she did radio. “My birthday’s April eighth, and I’m not sure of my Myers-Briggs.”
Kettering turned to Denise slowly, but turned dutifully all the same, jotting down her information just as Wenger came back in with Rich McGowan.
<
br /> Kettering turned to Rich, but Wenger waved him off with a flick of his hand. I wondered just how Rich had received his exemption as Kettering sat back down in his chair and looked over the stack of books on the kitchen table, searching for another victim. His glance lit on Artemisia’s wreck of a face.
“And you are?” he asked.
Artemisia just stared at Kettering.
“She’s Artemisia Twitchell,” Linda answered for her, stepping around the table until she was behind Artemisia’s chair. “She’s usually much more together than this, but this murder deal really freaked her out. Didn’t it, you poor thing?” She patted Artemisia’s shoulder gently.
Artemisia grabbed Linda’s hand convulsively and a pair of tears squeezed out of her reddened eyes.
“Ms. Twitchell, what can you tell me about your type?” Kettering asked encouragingly.
“Unlucky,” Artemisia murmured.
Good answer, I thought.
“Do you know your sign?” Kettering bulldozed on.
“A bad sign, born under a bad sign,” Artemisia sang out.
And Femur and Tibia began to yowl with her from somewhere underneath the kitchen table.
“Spirits,” she said, grinning. The grin looked macabre on her makeup-ravaged face.
Kettering stopped smiling. He moved his chair back and bent over slowly until his head was partway under the kitchen table. I couldn’t tell whether he had his gun drawn from where I was sitting, but I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“They’re cats, for Pete’s sake, cats,” Wenger’s voice boomed out, and Kettering’s head bounced up, with a crack into the table’s edge.
Femur and Tibia raced out from under the table and into the next room.
“I knew they were cats,” Kettering insisted, rubbing the back of his head.
Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 4