Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “That would be wonderful,” I said with the undue heartiness I usually save for children.

  She led us into a kitchen that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. It was far tidier than the living room—no jumble of books and artwork here, just a lot of notes under magnets on the refrigerator. And a scattering of appliances on the gleaming, yellow-tiled counters. A canvas depicting over a yard of sliced purple cabbage hung on the wall next to the gas stove. Barbara and I sat down at an uncluttered yellow Formica table while Meg put on the teakettle.

  “I made pumpkin bars,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “No fat, no dairy.”

  “So, that’s the wonderful smell!” Barbara warbled.

  A few minutes later, I decided the pumpkin bars not only smelled good, they tasted good too. They were sweet and chewy, with currants and cloves as well as cinnamon and nutmeg. I had almost forgotten why we were there as I took a bite of my second one. But Barbara hadn’t.

  “So, have you worked with Alice for very long?” she asked Meg.

  “Just off and on,” Meg said quietly, her eyes lowered. “I just do temp work. The paintings bring in a little money.”

  I should hope so, I thought indignantly. I hoped she was being paid what they were worth. She couldn’t be a very good saleswoman.

  “But you’re pretty close friends with Alice, aren’t you?” Barbara pressed, leaning forward across the table.

  “She likes me,” Meg said, lifting her eyes. There was a lilt of wonder in her voice as if she couldn’t quite understand why Alice might like her.

  “Of course she does,” I said encouragingly. Somehow Meg brought out the third-grade teacher in me.

  “Do you think Alice is in love with Dan?” Barbara asked.

  Meg tilted her head as she stared at Barbara, wide-eyed. “Dan?” she repeated.

  “Dan Snyder,” Barbara said impatiently. “You know, Sheila’s husband.”

  “Oh,” Meg said. She lowered her eyes again and sniffled. “Alice never mentioned it. Not that she’d confide in me necessarily.” She wriggled in her chair. “I just don’t know,” she finished.

  Barbara’s interrogation of Meg was beginning to feel like child abuse to me. I shot her a cautionary look, and she settled back in her chair with a martyred sigh. She took a bite of her pumpkin bar. It was my turn.

  “Have you known Gary and Paula long?” I asked.

  “Oh, forever,” said Meg, smiling at me now. “They’ve been really good to me over the years. Paula’s helped me find work. And helped me sell the paintings. Gary’s helped me build stuff. They’re both really great people.”

  I smiled back, trying and failing to come up with a way to segue into Paula or Gary’s possible motive for murder.

  “Did Gary and Paula know the Snyders before?” Barbara asked.

  The smile left Meg’s face. “I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Did you know them before?” Barbara demanded.

  “I don’t think so,” Meg answered once more. She twisted her thin hands together. “I met Sheila before the class. With Alice, you know. But I don’t think I ever met her before that.”

  Barbara looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. We could always ask Meg if she killed Sheila. But she’d probably just say she “didn’t think so.”

  “I’ve got an appointment,” Meg announced suddenly, straightening her shoulders.

  “What?” I squeaked, startled.

  “I have to go to an appointment,” she enunciated clearly. “I have approximately ten minutes left to get ready.”

  She stood and smiled graciously at us. Barbara and I rose from our seats as if we were on strings.

  “I guess we’ll be on our way, then,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “My pleasure,” she replied.

  As Meg walked us out of the kitchen, I read one of the notes on her refrigerator. CANDY, it said in scrawled block letters. I turned to ask her if she had a healthy, low-fat recipe for candy, but thought better of it when I saw the chill in her green eyes.

  “Jeez-Louse,” said Barbara once we were safe in the Toyota. “Was that the bum’s rush or what?”

  “She might really have an appointment,” I said, putting the key in the ignition.

  Then I remembered my own appointment. With the San Ricardo Police Department. My stomach turned over at the same time the engine did.

  “Why did she throw us out?” Barbara asked quietly as we whizzed towards the Golden Gate Bridge. I thought for a while.

  “Just because she’s shy doesn’t mean she’s stupid,” I answered finally. “Maybe we hit the limit of Meg’s tolerance for nosy, personal questions. We weren’t very subtle, you know.”

  “Maybe,” Barbara said absently.

  “She could be protecting Gary or Paula. Maybe asking about them triggered the reaction,” I theorized. I glanced at Barbara. She was staring out the front window with unseeing eyes. “So, what did you get psychically?” I asked.

  “Not a friggin’ thing!” Barbara exploded.

  Damn.

  Barbara put her head in her hands. “I’ve lost it, Kate,” she whispered. “I thought I was okay again, but I’ve lost it.”

  I spent the remainder of the trip home trying to convince Barbara she’d get her powers back. Powers I hadn’t completely believed she had in the first place.

  Barbara was limp when I gave her a goodbye hug at my house. She dragged herself out of the Toyota and into her Volkswagen bug like an old woman. Instead of her usual blast-off, she pulled slowly out of the driveway, signaled and drove carefully away. Poor Barbara.

  I sped toward the San Ricardo Police Department wondering what to do for her. Another psychic might be able to help her, I thought as I parked in the police lot. I looked at my watch. I was five minutes late. I forgot all about psychics. Fear took over my mind.

  The San Ricardo Police Department’s waiting room was larger than Mill Valley’s. Larger and shabbier. I checked in with the officer behind the bulletproof glass, then sat down on a molded fiberglass chair obviously made for an alien with a bowling-ball-shaped bottom rather than a human being. I wondered how many condemned men and women had sat here before me. I may not be psychic, but my imagination can be every bit as good as Barbara’s.

  There was only one other person in the room, a young woman with blond ringlets who was sobbing loudly into a shredded Kleenex. Victim, criminal or girlfriend? I wondered. I wanted to put my arm around her. I looked around for help. Didn’t anyone care that this young woman was suffering?

  I was so worried about her that it took a few minutes for the shouting to seep into my consciousness.

  First it was just a dull roar. Then I heard a distinct “No!” And, “No, it’s not enough!” The voice seemed to be getting closer.

  I heard a buzzer and the door to the waiting room opened. A burly man with curly black hair emerged. My breathing stopped when I recognized him. Dan Snyder. He turned back to the doorway.

  “Just keep the fuck outa my way!” he bellowed at someone I couldn’t see.

  Then he turned back and strode toward the front door. He was almost there when he noticed me.

  “You!” he shouted.

  I flattened myself against the chair, looking toward the bulletproof glass for help.

  Snyder saw my look. He lowered his voice.

  “I’ll get you!” he hissed and walked out the door.

  At least the young woman across from me had stopped crying. She was staring at me in apparent fascination when my name was called.

  Detective Utzinger escorted me into the interrogation room.

  Sergeant Oakley was still a good listener. I had forgotten that about her. I had forgotten about her warm, concerned, hazel eyes and her musical voice. I told her nearly everything: all about our investigations, every word I could remember anyone saying, including the words of Dan Snyder’s threatening phone call. The only things I omitted were some of Barbara’s more imaginative theori
es. And a few of my own. Once I had done a complete mind dump, I figured it was my turn. I leaned forward.

  “Do you think Dan Snyder is actually dangerous?” I asked.

  “Do you?” Oakley answered, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

  I tried again. “Does he really have an alibi?”

  Sergeant Oakley leaned back in her chair and laughed.

  “Feiffer warned me about you,” she said, shaking her red head.

  I felt the blood rising in my cheeks.

  “I need to know,” I insisted.

  Sergeant Oakley stood up. She was definitely a tall woman. She came around the table and looked down at me.

  “All you need to do is to stay out of this,” she told me in an even voice. “I mean it. Go home and do whatever it is you do. Leave the investigating to us.”

  Detective Utzinger escorted me out.

  I climbed into my Toyota with mixed emotions. I was glad to be out of the police interrogation rooms, but I wished I hadn’t made such a fool of myself. I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. A black truck pulled out behind me.

  I was on the highway entrance ramp when I felt the first bump. It wasn’t very hard. For a moment I thought I had imagined it. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the top of the grillwork on a Chevy truck and the bottom edge of its windshield. Suddenly, the edge of the windshield disappeared from my mirror. The grille grew larger. The truck rammed me again. Harder than the first time. Much harder. My body slammed against the car seat. My head smashed against the headrest.

  What the hell was going on? I swiveled my head around to look as I steered my car forward. My neck screamed in pain.

  But I recognized the angry face in the truck window. It was Dan Snyder’s.

  NINE

  DAN SNYDER’S TRUCK rammed me again. This time I was ready. As ready as someone with incipient whiplash can be, anyway. I took a deep breath and told my body to relax and roll with the bump. I didn’t slam into the seat as hard this time. But it still hurt.

  Should I accelerate? Try to outrun him? I had a feeling my Toyota Corolla was no match for his Chevy truck in the long run. And if I went much faster, being rammed might make me lose control. Not now, I decided.

  I was too busy, anyway, steering forward on the entrance ramp as the truck rammed me again and again. By the sixth collision we were both on the highway doing our bumping Chevy-Toyota dance in the slow lane. None of the people in the cars whizzing past seemed to notice what was going on. No one slowed down to look.

  By the seventh bump I’d had it. I jammed my foot on the gas and zoomed forward until I’d put a few car lengths between my Toyota and Snyder’s truck. Then I swerved into the emergency lane and braked, one hand firmly on my horn, hoping to attract attention. Still, none of the cars going past slowed down.

  I held my breath and watched in my rearview mirror as Snyder’s truck began to follow me into the emergency lane. Damn.

  But then, as he was almost to me, he sheered off and moved back onto the main highway. He was past me and gone in seconds.

  My legs and arms began to shake. My ears roared with adrenaline. But I was safe.

  I rubbed my neck and swiveled my head experimentally. The pain wasn’t excruciating. Not yet, anyway. I told myself I’d live. I realized then that Dan Snyder could have rammed me a lot harder. Or done worse. My shaking hands began to sweat.

  I got out of my car on trembling legs and walked to its rear. I love the rubber bumpers on my Toyota. There were light gray smudges on the back bumper, but no dents. I bent over to kiss the rubber, then thought better of it as I noticed a white smear that had apparently been deposited some time ago by a low-flying bird.

  I climbed back into my car. It was time to call the police.

  I gave my dashboard an affectionate pat, then pulled back onto the highway. The next exit took me to downtown San Ricardo. I forced myself to breathe deeply and rhythmically as I drove slowly back through town to the police station.

  I wasn’t very relaxed when I got there, though. I leapt out of the car the instant I parked and ran into the police station. The waiting room was empty now. I hurried up to the round-faced officer seated behind the bulletproof glass.

  “Dan Snyder rammed me,” I told him without preamble.

  He looked up at me uncomprehendingly.

  I tried again. “The guy whose wife was murdered. He rammed my car with his truck.”

  “You’ve had an accident,” the policeman said slowly, nodding now that he thought he had it figured out. “Did you get the license number of the other vehicle?”

  “It wasn’t an accident!” I shouted. “He rammed me!”

  “Calm down, lady,” the officer ordered with a frown.

  “Look,” I said, keeping my voice steady with an effort. “I need to talk to Sergeant Oakley. She knows what this is about.”

  “Sergeant Oakley’s not here,” the officer told me. He rummaged around in the trays on his desk and pulled out a printed form. “You’ll have to fill out an accident report.”

  I looked into his round face and opened my mouth to argue. But his eyes were empty both of comprehension and compassion. I gave up.

  “Never mind,” I said quietly.

  I turned around and left.

  I rubbed my neck with one hand and steered with the other on my way home. My mind ran in circles. Had Dan Snyder murdered his wife? Did he ram my car as a warning to me to keep out of the investigation? That didn’t really make much sense. I shook my head, then winced at the pain in my neck.

  If not to discourage me from investigating, why did Snyder ram me? Grief? Maybe he had loved Sheila, I thought. Maybe he had loved her so much that he was striking out at anyone involved with her death. I shivered suddenly, wondering if I should try the police again. No. One try was enough, I decided. And I was almost home.

  Wayne’s Jaguar was in the driveway when I got there. As I pulled my Toyota in behind it, my mind whirled in even bigger circles. Should I tell Wayne about the accident? Would he even listen? Did he care anymore? Tears filled my eyes suddenly. All the fear and misery of the last few days came welling up with them. Damn. I didn’t want Wayne to see me crying. Or Vesta.

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, then heard a thunk on the top of my car. I sat bolt upright. For one panicked instant, I thought Dan Snyder was still chasing me. But then a pair of paws appeared at the top of my windshield, followed by the tips of two cat ears, and finally by C.C.’s upside-down, yowling head.

  I opened my car door and C.C. hopped lightly from the roof onto the front hood and down to the ground. She led me up the front stairs, nagging me all the way. She was hungry! What a surprise.

  Wayne opened the front door.

  “Kate,” he said, then opened his arms. I peeked under his heavy brows and saw a moist expression in his eyes that looked an awful lot like the same fear and misery that I had been feeling.

  I ran the last few steps, pressed my face against his chest and threw my arms around him. He reached around and gave me a bear hug in return. My neck bent back.

  “Ow!” I yelped.

  He released me, then stared down at my face, his brows dropping like curtains over the tops of his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

  “I hurt my neck,” I mumbled, looking away.

  “You okay?” He put a tentative hand to the back of my neck.

  I nodded, then winced. I waited for him to ask me how I had hurt myself. He didn’t.

  He led me to my office chair in silence. Once I sat down, he began massaging the stiff muscles of my neck and shoulders with his big, gentle hands. When the muscles were warmed and loosened, he took my head in both his hands and pulled it up until my spine was stretched straight. I felt the pieces of my neck slipping back into place. Then he went back to kneading my muscles.

  Ten more minutes of massage was all it took. I talked.

  I told him about Sheila Snyder’s death, about
the people who were at the Good Thyme that night, about Barbara’s fear of being a suspect, about our investigations, and finally, about Dan Snyder’s ramming my Toyota. I was glad Wayne was behind me where I couldn’t see his face. But I could still feel his hands tighten when I told him about Dan Snyder’s assault.

  “Wayne?” I whispered. “Are you angry?”

  “Not at you,” he growled softly, depositing a light kiss on the top of my head.

  “Really?” I cried. Already my neck felt better. It barely twinged when I turned to look at him.

  “Really,” he assured me. He walked around my chair and knelt down in front of me. “I’m concerned about you,” he said, looking up into my face. “Afraid for you. Worried to death about you. But not angry with you.” He shook his head. “You helped me when I needed help. You have to help your friend Barbara. But…” He faltered.

  “But…” I prodded.

  “Be careful, Kate,” he said. His eyes filled with tears. He looked down at the carpet. “Couldn’t stand to lose you,” he said, his voice thick with feeling.

  I dropped to the floor and within seconds we were both hugging and crying, then rolling on the carpet and kissing, then—

  “Made you an apple pie,” someone said.

  Through a blur of passion, I tried to make sense of the words.

  “Mom,” groaned Wayne.

  I rolled away from him and looked up. Vesta stood above us, a flour-coated white apron over her black floor-length Addams Family dress.

  I sat up.

  “Just for Kate,” she said, grinning. “Apple pie, natural as all get out.”

  “I—” I began, planning to tell her I didn’t eat sugar.

  Then it hit me. She had made me a pie. Hypoglycemia was a small price to pay for good family relations.

  “I’d love some,” I said with a smile.

  Wayne and I followed Vesta into the kitchen. It was obvious she had been cooking. Flour was sprinkled all over the place like industrial strength fairy dust.

  “Ta-da!” announced Vesta, pointing at the golden-crusted pie in the center of the kitchen table.

  The three of us sat down and Vesta cut the pie. She put a good-sized piece on a plate and passed it to me.