Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  We dropped my royal cat home in the yard before we went to visit one more suspect. C. C. would make her own way into the house through the cat door. We were racing to get to Artemisia Twitchell’s. It was after four o’clock, the time to visit tired stockbrokers on the West Coast.

  Artemisia owned a condo in San Ricardo. We approached her door carefully. There seemed to be a fruit spill on the way to her condo. A coconut covered with white powder was angled away from the door on the edge of the top stair. And a bundle of banana leaves wrapped around some kind of sticks and tied together with a cord lay on a bed sheet in the walkway along with a heap of burnt herbs.

  I was about to knock on the door, when the door opened on its own.

  I opened my mouth to say hello and my face was drenched by a cup of water thrown my way. And then a waft of incense hit me. Eucalyptus again. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  But Artemisia’s face topped both of the prior assaults.

  - Fifteen -

  Artemisia peered out of her doorway through the chain that spanned its four-inch gap. I stared back at what I could see of her face. Its natural contours were not really kind. Her features were long and thin with small, close-set eyes and an unabridged nose over a narrow mouth. Her makeup was not doing its part to help soften the effect either. Her lipstick was flaking as usual, her mascara mostly smudged beneath her blinking eyes. But it was the two vertical stripes that ran like electrical tape down each side of her face that turned her countenance into a visual assault. One was bright green, the other red, each about an inch wide.

  I wasn’t about to ask Artemisia why she’d painted her face in stripes. Though I was sorely tempted to tell her that horizontal stripes might be more attractive with her thin features. Instead I lifted my arm and dried my own face with the sleeve of my turtleneck, keeping my mouth shut.

  She loosened the chain that held the door in place, then opened it another four inches.

  I could see panic in her small eyes now, and an earthenware cup in her hand. I assumed that the cup was what she’d used to throw the water.

  “Oh, Kate,” she whispered sadly. “I’m so sorry about your face. I have to throw a cup of water out the door every day. Honestly, I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Why the water?” I asked. When she didn’t answer, I guessed, “To water the coconut?”

  “Oh, no!” she shot back emphatically, opening the door all the way in order to explain. “The coconut removes evil from the house. And so do the banana leaves. And the water—”

  “How about the stripes on your face?” Barbara interjected.

  “That’s for the evil spirits who want to get into my head,” she replied, her face serious under the stripes. Very serious.

  Artemisia didn’t apologize for her explanations. I had to give her credit for that. But then, I’d worked in a mental hospital. Her logic made some kind of intrinsic sense to me.

  On the other hand, something was on fire in her house. Smoke billowed out from behind her, giving her a ghostly appearance. I resisted the urge to touch her to make sure she was real. 1 wasn’t sure Artemisia would appreciate the physical contact.

  “I’m burning some herbs too,” she whispered, looking from side to side as she spoke, as if she were divulging secret information.

  Barbara took that whisper as an invitation to enter, chirping, “Oh, I smell eucalyptus. And basil and myrrh too. Am I right?” as she moved past Artemisia into her fortress.

  “You’re right,” Artemisia breathed, her voice reflecting awe for Barbara’s inspired guesses.

  I wondered if Barbara’s nose or her little psychic brain had inspired those guesses, as I followed her into the room. And then I began to cough. I didn’t smell any basil or myrrh, not that I’d recognize myrrh in a forest fire, only the same smoldering eucalyptus that Artemisia had burned at Justine’s. I put my hand over my face.

  “Can you help me like Silk did?” Artemisia asked Barbara.

  My eyes were blinking and watering by then, so it took a while for them to come into focus, which was just as well.

  “How exactly did Silk help you?” Barbara asked gently as I pried my eyes open with my fingertips and took in the whole of Artemisia’s living room, or spirit room, or whatever it was. The walls were covered with woven hangings and amulets and crystals and bundles of herbs and lit candles and—

  “Silk helped me keep the evil spirits away,” Artemisia said.

  Right, 1 thought, as Artemisia glanced furtively over her shoulder, just like my cat, C. C., did, looking at nothing and scaring you anyway. And it wasn’t just the candles that Artemisia had lit, it was the trays of herbs. The fire department definitely wouldn’t have approved. In fact, I would have liked to stamp out some herb fires right then. I tried breathing through my mouth instead. Bad move. I started coughing again.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Barbara promised. “You just need to remember to think about love.”

  “Love?” Artemisia and I asked at the same time, though my cough ruined the word.

  “Love leaves no room for evil,” Barbara replied, staring into Artemisia’s eyes.

  I stopped coughing as I watched Artemisia nodding. Nodding, slowly and deeply. Had Barbara hypnotized her?

  “Did you know Silk well?’ I asked softly, my throat too sore to do otherwise anyway.

  Artemisia was still staring at Barbara’s faux Buddha face as she answered my question.

  “I only saw Silk at Justine’s meetings, but that’s why I went. Silk was so strong, you know, I figured she could scare any spirit.”

  “She probably could,” Barbara agreed, patting Artemisia’s executive-clad shoulder tentatively, dislodging a few ashes from the wool.

  A tear slid out one eye and down the length of Artemisia’s nose. “But someone killed Silk,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  “Who?” I asked quickly. I was getting used to the smoldering herbs. And Artemisia’s sadness. I could see and speak now.

  “Someone evil,” Artemisia replied. “That’s why I’m upping my protection here.”

  “Think of love,” Barbara ordered.

  “Yes!” Artemisia declared, clearly converted, and rushed to a computer which sat under a wall hanging that seemed to depict thumbprints, very large thumbprints.

  She pressed a switch, and her computer chugged and beeped to life.

  “Did you know Isabelle Viseu well?” Barbara asked her.

  “No,” Artemisia replied absently, apparently unconcerned. She was too busy with her computer. “I have a file,” she told us.

  “And what’s in the file?” Barbara asked in the tone that’s usually reserved for children.

  Artemisia didn’t seem to notice either the tone or the question. Instead she asked a question of her own.

  “Did you know Silk wasn’t the only one who changed her name? I did too. My name was Anita. But now it’s Artemisia.” Her voice dropped to a whisper again. “Artemisia is Latin for wormwood, you know, the parasite repellent. So I’m using my name to repel spirit parasites.”

  “Ah,” I said. Always a good word, “Ah.” Especially when all your instincts are telling you to flee.

  “See, now it’s up,” she announced and pointed at her computer proudly. “My men file.”

  Barbara and I made our way carefully to the computer, avoiding stick figures and burning candles and herbs, and then peeked over Artemisia’s shoulder.

  “I chart them all astrologically, you see,” she explained.

  “Men?” I guessed.

  “Yeah, you know, dates.” She hit a key and her computer began to scroll through a long list of names in alphabetical order. A very long list of names. “These are all the men I’ve been out with.”

  She stopped in the middle of the list at someone named Gorman. There had to have been at least fifty names on her list. Had Artemisia actually been out with fifty guys in her life?

  “See, I have them all charted,” she said. “Go ahead, pick one.”
<
br />   “How about a nice one?” I suggested.

  She scrolled down a little further, landed on Paxson, and hit another key.

  An astrological chart bloomed before our eyes.

  “Okay, here it is,” she told us. Then her brow furrowed, crinkling all the way out to the painted stripes on her face. “Gee, I thought he was nice, and then he moved to the East Coast, but his chart’s terrible.”

  “How about one you didn’t like?” Barbara tried next.

  Artemisia hit a button and we were back into the list of names. She scrolled upwards, and all of a sudden I got it. Love. Artemisia had taken Barbara’s word “love” and made “love life” out of it.

  And then another chart bloomed on the screen. “Wow,” Artemisia murmured. “And I thought Larry was a little jerk. Maybe I should call him.”

  “Love,” I whispered into Barbara’s ear.

  Her eyes opened for a moment. For once, I’d been ahead of her.

  “Now, Artemisia,” Barbara began. “When I said love, I didn’t necessarily mean—”

  “Is something wrong with Isabelle Viseu?” Artemisia demanded suddenly.

  Barbara and I looked at each other. Either Artemisia really didn’t know, or she was putting on a good act. And I was sure Chief Wenger wouldn’t appreciate our informing her of Isabelle’s death.

  “Is that why the police called?” she pressed, her voice filling with panic. She flicked off her computer mid-man and literally ran across the room. Matches, she was getting matches. She was going to light more eucalyptus on fire. Where was Smokey the Bear? For once, Barbara was with me.

  “No need for more herbs,” Barbara assured her. The match in Artemisia’s hand wavered above the striker. “You can visit the police at their station. They don’t have to come here.”

  “This place is sacred!” Artemisia yelped. “Sacred!”

  “Of course it is,” I agreed and began backing toward the door. Tai chi teaches such a great back step. Barbara moved with me. Psychic tai chi?

  “Maybe I need to sacrifice an animal,” Artemisia was muttering as we made it across the doorstep.

  “Love,” Barbara sang out, and then we turned and were out of there.

  “Jeez-Louise, what a nut case,” Barbara fumed as soon as we were back in the Toyota and on the highway. No more the kind, wise advisor.

  “But is Artemisia nuts enough to have killed Silk?” I asked.

  “Or Isabelle,” Barbara added. “I don’t know, kiddo. Maybe Artemisia really does have bad spirits.”

  “Or a bad case of melodrama,” I posited.

  “Still,” Barbara sighed. “She is a complete nut case.”

  “So, what happened to ‘love’?” I asked, smirking.

  “It got lost in her men file.”

  I was laughing when Barbara spoke up again.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she purred.

  My laughter died as quickly as if it’d been guillotined.

  “What surprise?” I asked cautiously, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.

  “Oralee Eckerman,” she replied.

  I thought for a while. “What’s an Oralee Eckerman?” I finally asked.

  “Jeez-Louise, kiddo, don’t you read the papers? She’s a gossip columnist.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s a friend of Felix’s…”

  I made a gagging noise. She ignored me and went on.

  “…and she knew Silk Sokoloff.”

  I stopped the gagging noise.

  “Really?”

  “And her house is right off the next exit.”

  I screeched across three lanes and managed to make the exit without turning over the Toyota. Then I slid down the off-ramp to the sounds of horns honking in my wake. The Barbara Chu school of driving.

  Oralee Eckerman’s house was a small, tasteful stucco cottage that didn’t smell like much of anything but cats and books and leftover food. I breathed in the unherbed air gratefully as we entered.

  “And you must be Kate Jasper, sleuth extraordinaire,” Oralee greeted me, extending a delicate hand.

  “Um, well—” I managed.

  Then I gave up and just shook her hand. She couldn’t have been even five feet tall, or less than seventy years old. The elegant suit she wore had to be custom-made. She peered at me over the top of her large butterfly glasses as she released my hand.

  “Guess you’re kinda tired of the sleuth stuff, huh, honey?” she hazarded. Her voice was high and knowing.

  “Well, sometimes,” I admitted, admiring this woman for her perception.

  “Barbara has told me all about you and your escapades.”

  I shot Barbara a look, but she ignored me, looking somewhere over our heads.

  “So you knew Silk Sokoloff?” I said. Someone had to get this conversation back on track.

  “Wanna sit down and talk about it?” Oralee offered. And then I remembered we were still on her doorstep.

  So we sat. On a very nice, linen-covered couch across from our informant. And Oralee talked.

  “Silk was a character,” she told us. “But with Sonya Sokoloff as an aunt, who couldn’t be, eh?”

  “Oh, right,” I replied, trying frantically to remember who Sonya Sokoloff was. Barbara clued me in.

  “Civil rights activist and folk singer,” she whispered in my ear.

  The combination worked. My memory banks clicked open. I remembered someone berating Sonya Sokoloff from my childhood. A friend of my parents? A relative? Sonya had been as outrageous for her time as Silk had been in her own. That much I remembered from the conversation. Oralee was still speaking as the memory took on substance. It was my uncle Peter. Something about an affair Sonya shouldn’t have had.

  “Her aunt’s fame always bugged Silk,” Oralee analyzed. “Made her hot to do anything for the limelight. Always had to be the center of attention.”

  “How’d she treat you personally?” Barbara asked.

  “Like any other woman a generation older than her,” Oralee shot back. “She figured I didn’t know anything about life. Didn’t know anything about sex. Hell, I could have given her a few lessons. You don’t get to be my age without learning something.”

  “I’ll bet,” I agreed. I liked this lady. At least, for the moment. I’d hate to have her at my throat.

  “Barbara gave me a list of the suspects too,” Oralee said. “I only knew a few of the names. Artemisia Twitchell—”

  “We just visited Artemisia,” Barbara offered. “Hooboy, Bullwinkle!”

  “Yeah, but I have a friend who works with Artemisia,” Oralee said, tempering Barbara’s opinion. “Ms. Twitchell acts almost normal at work. She may be a borderline psychotic, but she can pick stocks. That’s why she’s still working.”

  Barbara held her tongue in check.

  “Who else?” I asked eagerly.

  “Know Tory Quesada, she was married to Julio Roland for five years.”

  I smiled, waiting for more.

  “Money,” Barbara said knowingly.

  “Mucho,” Oralee responded, rubbing her thumb and a bank teller’s salary.

  “And Elsa Oberg,” Oralee went on. “Live as long as I have and you gotta meet Elsa. Woman’s had a slew of husbands, each one richer than the last. Great old broad.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Barbara put in. Jeez-Louise, had Barbara’s exposure to Artemisia completely destroyed her psychic sensitivity?

  I held my breath until Oralee laughed. For a moment I didn’t think she was going to. The moment where she glared at Barbara with her face pinkening.

  “So, have you two talked to Silk’s sister?” Oralee threw out. She grinned, then relaxed again.

  Barbara and I both took the bait, leaning forward till we almost slid off Oralee’s linen-covered couch. My heart thumped with anticipation.

  “Oh yeah,” Barbara murmured. “Silk had a sister. It said so in the paper. But she never mentioned her.”

  “Hey, is Silk gonna mention her
sister?” Oralee asked rhetorically. “And take herself out of the limelight for a nanosecond?”

  Barbara and I shook our heads emphatically.

  “Betcha you’d like the sister’s address,” Oralee whispered. She was enjoying this. Getting back at Barbara for her wisecrack?

  “And her name,” I suggested. I didn’t read the papers.

  Oralee pumped me for a while about my sleuthing, but I kept it short. Nothing, except maybe Felix Byrne, can persuade me to tell a reporter more than I have to about my karmic misadventures. Or a gossip columnist, for that matter. Finally, Oralee gave us Silk’s sister’s name and address. Mattie Sokoloff. And she lived just over the bridge in San Francisco.

  Actually “just over the bridge” was Barbara’s phrase, the one she used to convince me that an instant, unannounced visit was in order.

  I agreed on one condition. I stopped at a phone booth and called Wayne. Hoping he couldn’t hear the lie over the phone, I told him I was out shopping with Barbara. He said he loved me and hung up. Pure guilt propelled my car across the Golden Gate Bridge and into the Richmond District where Mattie Sokoloff lived. No gasoline was necessary.

  By the time we found the apartment building and a parking space, I had reservations about the visit. Barbara dragged me up the stairs to the landing and rang the bell. I was still arguing with her about the ethics of calling on the dead woman’s sister without notice when the door opened.

  And Silk Sokoloff stood in the doorway.

  - Sixteen -

  But, of course, it wasn’t really Silk Sokoloff in the doorway. Just someone who looked too much like her for comfort. The woman who stared back at us was tall and curvy with the same square face as Silk’s. She even wore the same heavy eye makeup under her unplucked brows. But she wasn’t sporting a feather boa or rainbow colors in her hair. And there was no look of recognition on her square face for me or for Barbara.

  “Yes?” Silk’s look-alike burst out impatiently. “Are you selling something?”

  “No.” Barbara finally spoke into the silence, her voice subdued. Had she been as mesmerized as I was? “We were friends of your sister’s.”