“It was someone in the class,” Barbara told me, her eyes serious. “I’ll bet it was because she hit her little girl.”
I pushed a pile of tarot cards to the side of the nearest futon and took a seat. “If people went around killing everyone they saw hitting children,” I replied, equally serious, “there would be a helluva lot more dead bodies around.”
None of my arguments made a dent in Barbara’s resolve. Half an hour later, we were making phone calls. Barbara was in her bedroom using her personal phone line. I was in the living room using her business line. And worse, I was setting up appointments to see potential murderers in person. I’d agreed to the plan only when Barbara had promised me that we would visit any suspects as a team. Her capitulation had been all too swift. I rubbed my throbbing temples. I had been suckered again.
I got Alice Frazier the first try, on duty at the reception desk of the Stanton-Reneau Insurance Agency in downtown San Francisco. And Meg was there too, Alice told me, doing temp work. I invited them to lunch. Alice put me on hold for a minute or two, then returned to accept the invitation. Barbara and I could meet them at their office, she told me. She sounded perfectly happy about the arrangement, unafraid. That made one of us.
I called Iris Neville next. She was breathless with excitement at the prospect of being interviewed.
“So glad to be included,” she assured me.
I told her we’d see her within the hour, and wondered what was wrong with these people. I could be the killer. They should be nervous.
I was on my way into Barbara’s bedroom to tell her the news when she yelled my name. I ran the last few steps, visions of murder, even kidnapping, flooding my brain. But Barbara was only held captive by the screen of her television set.
“Look,” she said pointing. “Our murder’s on TV.”
“—deeply upset by this recent act of violence,” a well-dressed, olive-skinned man with large mournful eyes was saying to a microphone-wielding reporter. “The members of the San Ricardo Police Department are working around the clock to discover the identity of the perpetrator.”
“Lieutenant Madrid, do you have any suspects yet?” the reporter asked.
“I cannot say at this time,” the man answered.
As the reporter turned back to the screen, Barbara touched a button on her remote control and the picture disappeared.
“Jeez-Louise,” she said. “If that’s the head of the detective bureau, we’re in trouble.”
I shrugged my shoulders. However politic his words, Lieutenant Madrid had a better chance of solving this murder than we did.
“Okay,” Barbara said, all business now. She picked up a notebook. “There’s no one at Ken Hermann’s but an answering machine. I left a message. Leo didn’t write down his last name, but his phone number is connected to an art gallery. The woman who answered said Leo’d be in most of the day. Paula Pierce and Gary Powell wrote down the same number, but it’s busy.” She paused to scribble down some notes, then looked up at me. “So what’d you get?” she asked.
Barbara was impressed when I told her about our two appointments. She leapt off her bed and gave me a big hug in celebration, then changed into a pair of beige slacks and a conservative silk print blouse in a matter of seconds.
I looked down at my own MY CAT WALKS ALL OVER ME shirt, complete with paw prints. My mother had given it to me for my birthday.
Barbara saw the look and tossed me a lavender silk blouse. Luckily she wore her clothes loose. I changed into the silk blouse and tucked it into my jeans. I wondered if she’d let me keep it.
I was glad I was wearing the silk blouse when we got to Iris’s house in the San Ricardo hills. Iris was in silk too, an embroidered, cream-colored silk tunic over matching pants. She opened the door and her wide blue eyes took in our outfits approvingly.
“Oh, my,” she said, “you both look so nice.”
I imagined that she was comparing my blouse to the zoo T-shirt I had worn the night before. I’m often subject to these flashes of style paranoia.
“What a beautiful tunic,” purred Barbara.
That got us into the living room, a large, beautifully decorated room in tones of gray, mauve and cream. A group of couches in muted floral patterns formed a conversation area at one end of the room. A grand piano dominated the other end.
“Do you play?” I asked politely. I figured it wouldn’t be socially correct to ask her outright if she had murdered Sheila.
“Yes, I do,” she trilled. She toyed with what looked like a chopstick stuck into her silver French twist. “Are you musical, yourself?” she inquired.
I shook my head violently. The closest I’d ever been to music was an old boyfriend who had strummed the guitar far more lovingly than he had me.
“You could play piano with those fingers,” she said, looking at my hands.
She reached toward me. “May I?” she asked and clamped her cool fingers around my wrist, pulling my hand up in front of her intent face. “Such nice, long fingers. Such a good spread,” she said, stroking the fingers in question.
“Uh, thanks,” I replied, feeling vaguely embarrassed, as if she’d peeked at my underwear. She let go of my hand.
“My fingers, alas, were never long enough to be a true concert pianist’s,” she confessed, holding out her small hand as evidence. “I practiced and practiced when I was a girl. I had the ear, but not the hands.”
She sighed and put her inadequate hand to her chest. Tragedy became her. Her strong features were noble in their sadness, her straight back unbowed.
How in the world was I going to segue into murder? I checked for Barbara at my side. But she was gone, looking at a series of photographs on the wall behind the piano.
“Ah, you’ve found my little collection,” said Iris, her voice cheery again.
I stepped past the piano and looked more closely at the rows of framed black-and-white photographs. They were all pictures of pairs of hands. Nothing else, just rows and rows of disembodied hands. An image of Iris’s small hands wrapping electric cord around Sheila’s neck superimposed itself onto the wall of photos. I swallowed hard and it disappeared.
“These hands are Liberace’s,” she told us, pointing to a pair at the bottom. “Can’t you just see the music in them?”
I nodded insincerely.
“And these are Van Cliburn’s,” she continued.
She pointed out the hands of some two dozen musicians, then went on to other celebrities: Saddam Hussein’s—”so evil,” Albert Schweitzer’s—”such kindness in them,” Richard Nixon’s, John F. Kennedy’s, and on. And on. Finally, she reached the top row.
“Let’s see if you can guess whose hands these are,” she challenged us, her finger on a photo at the far end of the row.
They looked like everyday hands to me, four fingers and a thumb each. I glanced in Barbara’s direction. It was going to take a psychic to come up with a reasonable guess.
“I’ll give you a clue,” Iris said. She smiled broadly. “Murder.”
“Murder?” I repeated, my voice squeaking.
“Speaking of murder,” said Barbara calmly, “did you see anything suspicious last night?” Not the most graceful segue, but certainly better than I had accomplished.
Unfortunately, Iris hadn’t seen anything suspicious. She hadn’t known Sheila Snyder, nor anyone else in the class previously. She couldn’t imagine who had done such a thing. And she was very sorry she couldn’t be of more help.
We did learn that she had been a nurse before she married her late husband, Norris, a dear man who had also played the piano. They had owned a lovely little music store in San Francisco for many years, such a joy. Now she volunteered her time at hospices and shelters for abused women. So many good causes.
She asked us if we’d like some tea. She had herbal, she assured us, and some delicious little cookies from the health food store. I felt a pang of guilt as we refused. This woman was a different breed of social creature than I, but she was int
elligent, lively, and good-humored. And she was lonely. You could see it in her eyes, especially when she spoke of her late husband.
“Maybe another time,” I said, not sure if I meant it.
“Yes, perhaps we could have lunch someday,” Iris suggested as she walked us to her front door.
“That would be great,” I told her.
Iris squeezed our respective hands goodbye and we turned to leave.
We were all the way out the doorway when Barbara suddenly turned back.
“So whose were those last hands?” she asked Iris.
Iris chuckled. “Are you sure you don’t want to guess?”
We both shook our heads.
She brought her face closer to ours and whispered, “Ted Bundy’s.”
FIVE
I SWALLOWED, THEN forced my face into a strained smile. Somehow, I didn’t think I would enjoy lunching with Iris now, unless we had a chaperon—preferably an armed one.
“Gee, that’s really interesting,” said Barbara, her voice a little too high to be sincere.
But Iris didn’t seem to notice the effect that her identification of Ted Bundy’s hands was having on us.
“I’m so glad you think so. So few people understand,” she said, her speech quickening with enthusiasm. Her wide blue eyes gleamed as she went on. “You can see the cruelty in his fingertips, can’t you? And his extraordinary ability to plan in the way he holds his hands.” She brought her own small hands together, clasping them in front of her chest. “So fascinating really, when you think of the use that he put his hands to.”
Goose bumps formed on my arms. I swallowed again.
“Fascinating,” Barbara echoed.
Iris dropped her hands and smiled apologetically. “But I mustn’t ride my favorite hobbyhorse any longer,” she said briskly. “You two have things to do. It was so good of you to drop by.”
When Iris shut her door, Barbara and I practically ran to my Toyota.
“Jeez-Louise,” whispered Barbara once we were locked in the car.
That about summed it up. I turned the engine on and drove toward the highway without speaking. Before we got there, Barbara broke the silence.
“Let’s go downtown,” she directed. “I want to see the Good Thyme Cafe again.”
I followed her direction without thought. My mind was too busy with Iris to think about anything else.
I parked a block away from the Good Thyme, turned off the engine and looked at Barbara.
“Do you think Iris is our murderer?” I asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Barbara answered. She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I don’t get anything weird from her psychically. She seems friendly, harmless.” She shook her head. “No, it can’t be Iris.”
“Then who?” I demanded, suddenly angry with Barbara, angry with myself for going along with her. I didn’t want to visit any more murder suspects. “I can’t imagine any of the people from last night’s class as a murderer,” I said. It wasn’t really true. If I allowed myself to, I could imagine each and every one of them strangling Sheila.
“How about Paula Pierce?” Barbara countered, her voice rising. “She’s an attorney. And she was angry when Sheila came on to Gary—”
“Just because she’s an attorney, doesn’t mean she’s a murderer,” I interrupted, holding my sore stomach. “Ruthless, maybe. But not a murderer.”
“Then what about her husband, Gary?” Barbara demanded, her voice even louder. “He’s too quiet. And the way he fondles that crystal. Jeez-Louise! I like crystals, but enough is enough.”
I didn’t answer. I was remembering Gary’s warm smile.
“And Meg, the cooking teacher!” Barbara pressed on. “It was her SaladShooter. And she knows how to use it.”
“Sheila was not shredded to death,” I said evenly.
Barbara let out a quick snort of laughter. Then she frowned and paled. Was she remembering just how Sheila had been killed?
“Sorry about that, kiddo,” Barbara apologized softly. “I guess I’m just searching for an easy answer.” She reached out and put her hand on mine. “Are we still friends?” she asked.
“Of course,” I answered, and my stomach relaxed instantly. I looked into her all-too scrutable Asian face and saw real concern there. How could I have been mad at Barbara?
She smiled back at me. “I’ll bet it’s that lecherous creep, Leo,” she said cheerfully.
Damn. Now I remembered why I was mad. I opened my mouth to argue.
“Or his friend, Ken,” she added quickly.
I closed my mouth and thought about Ken Hermann. I remembered the way he had goggled from behind his glasses. And the half-smile on his face after Sheila’s body had been discovered. Sheila had cut him off while he was ranting about poisons in our food. Maybe that had made him angry. I shivered.
“He could be—” I began.
“Alice!” Barbara yelped abruptly. She hit the dashboard with her fist. “Alice knew the Snyders ahead of time!” She turned to me, her beautiful face made more beautiful by the intensity that clarified it. “And Alice set the class up,” she breathed.
Alice Frazier: plump, pretty, friendly and energetic. I had liked her, liked her a lot. I put my head into my hands. I didn’t want to think about it anymore.
“Let’s go check out the Good Thyme,” Barbara said eagerly. She opened the car door and hopped out.
I groaned. Barbara came around to my side and pulled me from the womb of my Toyota.
Luckily, the Good Thyme Cafe was closed. But Barbara dragged me around to canvass the other businesses on the block, hoping for gossip about the Snyders. The boy scooping ice cream at the shop on the corner had never heard of them, but Barbara enjoyed her pre-lunch, double-chocolate cone. The owner of the bike shop knew them, but only because they dumped their extra garbage in his bins. He’d seen them do it, he assured us indignantly. The folks at the book store, the variety store and the barber shop didn’t want to say anything about the Snyders, but the man tending bar two blocks down let us know that the Synders were too “stuck-up” to put Christmas decorations in their windows like the rest of the local businesses.
Barbara stopped to make some phone calls on the bar’s pay phone while I sipped a Virgin Mary—Bloody Mary, hold the vodka—and worried about my undone Jest Gifts paperwork. Barbara was grinning with excitement when she got back from the phone. She had reached Paula and arranged a five o’clock appointment at her law office in San Francisco. At least Paula was working today, I thought miserably.
Barbara hustled me out to the car before I had a chance to finish my drink. We had forty minutes to drive from San Ricardo to downtown San Francisco to meet Alice and Meg for lunch.
It took me forty-five minutes. I was searching desperately for a parking space, knowing I would never find one, when I saw them waiting in the shadow of a tall office building. I couldn’t miss Alice, her ample body elegant in a well-cut electric-blue suit and high heels. But I would have never seen Meg if I hadn’t been looking for her. She wore a gray pantsuit that blended into the gray stonework behind her. Her pale face was visible though, and staring in our direction. She lifted her hand in a tentative wave.
I pulled the steering wheel to the right and skidded into a bus zone. Meg and Alice piled into the car and the whole thing got easier.
“Go up four blocks and take a right,” ordered Alice. “There’ll be an underground parking lot on your left.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied thankfully.
I still liked Alice. She gave great directions. I’d worry about her being a killer after I got out of traffic.
The restaurant she took us to served salad, soup, and a few hot entrees and sandwiches cafeteria style, a necessity for office workers who had only an hour for lunch. Meg, Alice and I all got garden salads with whole-wheat rolls. Barbara asked for lasagna. I eyed her tray enviously as we paid for our meals and carried them to a laminated wood table.
We ate in silence for a f
ew minutes. The salad was limp, the Italian dressing too oily. Barbara squinted her eyes and stared at Alice. Alice stared back at Barbara. Meg sniffled and kept her eyes on her salad.
“So, Alice,” I said finally. I tried to keep my voice friendly, conversational. “You knew the Snyders before, didn’t you?”
Alice’s eyebrows went up. Wasn’t she expecting this kind of question? Why did she think we were meeting her for lunch? After a moment, her eyebrows came back down and she answered.
“Sheila and Dan and I all lived in the same commune,” she told us. Her eyes went out of focus as she remembered. “This was years ago, way before their kids. When I was still thin,” she added, laughing. “So was Dan. God, he was a hunk. There were twelve of us originally. We all put in a little money and leased this huge old farmhouse out in Granville. Called it Heartsong. It was really neat, at least for a while.
“We all shared chores. Sheila cooked vegetarian meals. Maybe that’s why I was so thin. She never could cook worth a damn.” Alice laughed again. Then her eyes came back into focus. She shook her head sadly.
“Did you keep in touch?” asked Barbara.
“No,” Alice answered. She took a bite of salad and mumbled through it “I left the commune in ‘73. Stopped making macrame and went back out into the real world. Got a real job. I didn’t see Dan and Sheila again till a few months ago at a farmers market. What a trip! After all these years. We got together a few times. I ate at their restaurant.” Alice smiled.
“Sheila still doesn’t cook very well,” she said. But then her smile disappeared. “I guess I should say, she didn’t cook very well. It’s hard to believe she’s dead.” She bent her head over her salad and took another bite.
“How did Dan and Sheila get along?” I asked through a mouthful of my own salad.
Alice’s head jerked up at the question. Her eyes narrowed, her good-natured face no longer good-natured.
“I mean—” I began.
“I know what you mean,” she snapped. “Dan loved his wife, loved her absolutely, without reservation. Even when she hit the kids, he would just ask her to stop. He loved her more than anything, more than…” Her eyes went out of focus again as her words trailed off.
Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 5