Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “God knows how we’d diagnose the woman,” she added, her voice taking on weight as she spoke. “Just plain ‘schizophrenic’ doesn’t cut it anymore for most of them.” She shook her head. “We have to be specific, very specific. Or else we get sued for malpractice. You wouldn’t believe it. There’re about a million psychoses and conditions and disorders.”

  “Like what?” I asked. I was curious. When I had worked on a psych ward, we had used three basic categories: schizophrenic, manic-depressive and alcoholic.

  Ann took a sip of tea before answering. “Okay,” she said, her voice a little lighter. “Say someone comes in with amnesia—”

  “Hit ‘em over the head again,” I advised.

  She laughed. “I only wish it was that easy,” she drawled. “If someone has amnesia, it might be from prolonged alcohol abuse, or delirium, or brain damage, or MPD—”

  “What’s MPD?” I asked.

  “Multiple Personality Disorder,” she answered. She took another sip of tea.

  “You mean like The Three Faces of Eve? And Sybil?”

  “You got it,” she told me. “God, these MPD patients are bizarre. Flipping in and out of personalities like they’re changing the channel on a TV set.”

  Someone cleared a throat next to me. I jumped, startled. It was our waitress. I wondered how long she’d been standing there.

  “How about dessert?” she proposed, a weak smile on her face. Her eyes took on a glazed look as she began to recite. “We have homemade lemon cheesecake, chocolate brownies with ice cream, fresh fruit compote, guava-mango sorbet—”

  “Stop right there,” Ann ordered, holding out her hand like a traffic cop. “I’ll have a decaf espresso.”

  “Is there any sugar in the fruit compote?” I asked. My stomach gave a little churn in favor of dessert.

  “Only a tiny bit of honey,” she whispered.

  “I’ll take it,” I said, hoping it wasn’t anything like Vesta’s apple pie.

  “Go on,” I told Ann after our waitress had departed.

  She leaned forward across the table. “I’ve seen these MPD patients, Kate,” she said earnestly. “They really do seem to be more than one person, at least more than one personality. And some of their personalities don’t know what the other personalities have done, so they look like amnesiacs. But then, another one of their personalities may know exactly what the rest are doing. It’s like talking to totally different people, with totally different memories.” She threw up her hands. “God, what a mess! You practically need a different diagnosis for each one.”

  “Why are they like that?” I asked.,

  “Usually terrible abuse as children,” she answered, her chocolate-brown eyes suddenly sad. “The theory is that they divide into separate personalities in order to split off the memories of the abuse.” She leaned back and began twirling a black curl around her finger, a sure sign she was upset.

  “But then, most of the mental disorders we see begin with childhood abuse,” she said, her voice high and vibrating with tension. “God, some of the alcoholics we get in. It makes me sick to think they have kids! Violent sons of bitches, some of them.”

  I just nodded, knowing that Ann’s parents had been abusive alcoholics. Every once in a while she talked about them. She usually kept the subject in the abstract, speaking of patterns in dysfunctional families or Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings. She got too upset when she talked about real people. I wondered, not for the first time, why she chose to do work that was bound to expose her to the kind of abusive alcoholics she’d been raised by. I opened my mouth to ask.

  “There was this man we had for a while last year,” she said, cutting me off before I had a chance. “He killed a guy in a bar, drove home, and didn’t remember any of it the next day. He’s a perfectly nice man. When he’s not drinking.” She laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh.

  “And then, there’re the sociopaths,” she went on angrily. “They’re the hardest to spot. Sometimes they’re charming, real charming.” She reached to twirl her hair again. “We have this old man on the residential ward. He’s helpful and friendly, a real doll. You wonder what he’s doing locked up. Then you take a look at his chart. He’s a three-time child molester!”

  She leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “The Girl Scouts visited last Christmas. A nurse walked in and there he was, with one of them in his lap!”

  “Decaf espresso,” came a whisper to our side.

  This time, Ann and I both jumped. Our waitress handed Ann the decaf. “Guava-mango sorbet,” she said to me.

  “Didn’t I…” I faltered. In between multiple personalities, alcoholics and sociopaths, I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d asked for.

  “She ordered the fruit compote,” Ann said.

  Our waitress sighed. Her doe-eyes moistened.

  “Any sugar in the sorbet?” I asked.

  “Sweetened with fruit juice only,” she recited hopefully.

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  She handed the sorbet over and whispered, “They won’t let us write down the orders.”

  I nodded sympathetically. Ann rolled her eyes.

  “When are you going to stop being such a caretaker?” she asked once the waitress was out of sight. Her affectionate smile took the sting out of her words.

  “Caretaker? Is that a diagnosis?” I asked her back.

  She laughed. I took a bite of sorbet. It was tart and cold on my tongue. And sweet. Sighing, I closed my eyes and let it melt into my mouth. I’ve never been convinced that sex is the only orgasmic pleasure around. My stomach gurgled happily in agreement.

  I swallowed and opened my eyes again, looking across at Ann. “Why do you work in a mental hospital if it upsets you so much?” I asked seriously.

  Her head jerked up and her eyes narrowed. Damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.

  “Join the crowd,” she snapped. She crossed her arms. “My therapist wants to know why, too. I don’t work with the patients directly, for God’s sake! I’m in the front office. But—”

  She stopped mid-tirade, uncrossing her arms, then raising them as if she were under arrest.

  “Sorry, Kate,” she whispered. “The answer is probably, ‘because of my childhood.’ I didn’t mean to rant and rave.”

  “I was just curious,” I told her, embarrassed to have upset her.

  “Me, too,” she said with a toothy smile. “You tell me if you figure it out first. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I agreed, reaching out to shake her hand. “It’s a deal. All you have to do now is tell me how to get rid of Wayne’s mother.”

  She shook my hand and laughed.

  “Permanently?” she purred, her eyes glinting with mischief.

  “Don’t tempt me,” I muttered.

  “Well, I don’t know how to get rid of her,” Ann told me, “but I know what her diagnosis is.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “JPND,” she whispered.

  TWELVE

  “WHAT THE HELL is JPND?” I demanded.

  Ann bent forward and whispered, “Just Plain Nasty Disorder.”

  We both laughed far harder than the diagnosis warranted. We were still laughing when our waitress arrived with our check. She dropped it on the table and scurried away with one last, nervous, backward glance.

  Ann and I paid up and walked out together. We shared a hug in the parking lot.

  “Let me know what happens with your murder,” Ann said. “And don’t worry, everything will be okay.”

  I started to object to her characterization of the murder as mine, but a look at her smiling face stopped me. I hugged her again instead.

  I drove home feeling warmed by the friendship we shared. I could never be a complete hermit. My friendships with other women meant too much to me. They were the staples of my life, the brown rice and tofu I needed to survive. Wayne was the dessert. I smiled, thinking of him with a scoop of sorbet strategically placed on his naked body. Never mind, I to
ld myself. You’ve had enough dessert.

  But the smile was still tugging at the corners of my mouth as I opened the front door and walked into my house.

  “We have a guest, Kate,” Vesta sang out gaily from the living room.

  Cheered by her happy tone, I turned to see who was visiting. The cheer turned to chill instantly.

  A burly man was sharing the living room couch with Vesta. I recognized him instantly. Dan Snyder. My hands went icy. He rose from the couch and strode toward me. My neck and shoulders seized up in memory of the last time I had seen his face. Only this time he wasn’t staring down from the windshield of his truck. There were no rubber bumpers between us.

  “I wanna talk to you,” he growled.

  I started toward the phone an instant too late. Dan stepped in front of me. God, he was a big man! As tall as Wayne, but bulkier.

  Maybe Vesta could call the police, I thought, appealing to her with my eyes. But she only smiled, clearly pleased with the situation. I cursed to myself over the sound of my heart thudding in my ears and turned back to Dan Snyder.

  I studied his face. I was close enough to see the black stubble on his cheeks, the red webs in the whites of his squinting eyes, and the dark circles beneath them. My heart eased a bit. He looked in worse shape than me. He must be grieving for his wife, I thought with a momentary surge of compassion. But then another possibility entered my mind. What if he was really in a panic, afraid he would go to prison for her murder?

  “Who killed my wife?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse with anger. My heart jumped into my ears again.

  “I don’t know,” I answered softly.

  His hands formed into fists. “Don’t give me that bullshit!” he shouted, thrusting his face closer to mine. “I wanna know who killed her!”

  I took a deep breath and tried to center myself. In tai chi the person who is the most relaxed, the most flexible, wins. I’d pushed guys nearly his size off balance in push-hands exercises. But they weren’t angry, I reminded myself. They weren’t possible murderers. I didn’t want to fight with this guy. I took a slow step backwards instead, keeping my eyes on his glaring face.

  “I don’t know who killed your wife,” I repeated in a quiet, level voice. I took another slow back step. “I’m trying to find out.”

  He narrowed his eyes further. “Why?” he asked.

  That was a good question. I couldn’t tell him Barbara was under suspicion. Or that I had found bodies before—

  He moved closer to me, closing the gap between us in one stride. Damn.

  “Why?” he repeated, louder this time.

  “Murder is a terrible thing,” I whispered. Cold sweat dampened my shirt. “It shouldn’t go unpunished.”

  He tilted his head as if considering my words. Then he nodded, his face softening.

  I took a breath, and another backward step for good measure.

  “Ask her why the police wanted to talk to her!” Vesta shouted from the couch.

  Dan jerked his head in her direction, startled. Then he turned his renewed glare on me.

  “Ask her about her friend, too,” Vesta added. “They’re up to something.”

  Dan grunted and reached for me. I took a few more quick backsteps and his hands closed on air. But not for long.

  “Hey!” he bellowed and strode toward me, arms outstretched. I knew he could go forward faster than I could go backward, but I kept stepping away.

  I was almost to the doorway. Should I run for it? Or use his momentum against him? He’d go over pretty easily with that forward tilt.

  “What are you two—” he began.

  “Young man!” shrilled a voice from behind me.

  Dan looked past me, his eyes open with surprise. His arms dropped to his sides.

  I chanced a quick backward glance and saw Arletta and Edna standing there. The twins! Arletta’s frail body was rigid with disapproval as she peered through her thick glasses at Dan Snyder. Edna stood like a rock next to her, arms crossed over her chest.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Edna demanded in a voice nearly as menacing as Dan’s own.

  Dan’s shoulders slumped. He hung his head and muttered something I couldn’t make out.

  “May we come in, Kate?” chirped Arletta politely.

  “Of course you can,” I answered without turning my head. I still didn’t want to take my eyes off Dan Snyder.

  Two long strides took Edna to the left of me. Arletta took a few shorter steps to my right. I was surrounded, safe. My body let go and began to shake with relief and leftover adrenaline.

  “You must be Dan Snyder,” Arletta said, her high voice more gentle now.

  Dan nodded, his eyes on her face.

  “Kate has been trying to solve the mystery of your wife’s death,” she told him. “You might want to thank her for her efforts.”

  “Thank you,” he muttered, dropping his gaze to the tops of his shoes.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied quietly, suppressing a terrible urge to giggle. I rubbed my cold hands together instead.

  “You’re not going to let her get away with that!” shrieked Vesta. She leapt from the couch and ran the short distance to join our little group. “She’s hiding something! Her and that friend of hers.”

  Dan squinted in her direction for a moment. Then he looked back at me. Damn.

  “What are you hiding—” he began.

  “Young man,” Arletta interrupted him. “Kate is not hiding anything from you.” Then she turned to Vesta. “I cannot imagine what your reason is for inciting this poor young man to suspect Kate, but your behavior is inexcusable.”

  “But—” squeaked Vesta.

  “There is no excuse,” Arletta repeated, her gaze unwavering. Vesta glared back defiantly for a moment, then turned and stomped away.

  “Now,” chirped Arletta, peering at Dan benevolently through her glasses. “Perhaps we can discuss this in a more congenial atmosphere. There is a very nice lounge in the lobby of our hotel. Would you be so good as to accompany us there?”

  Dan stared at her, wide-eyed. To me, his bloodshot eyes seemed to cry out “No!” But his mouth mumbled “Okay,” and he followed Edna and Arletta out the front door.

  I watched from the porch as Arletta climbed into Dan’s truck. Then Edna got into her rental car and the two vehicles drove in procession down the road until they were out of sight.

  Once they were gone, I collapsed. I was shivering and shaking as I curled up in my comfy chair, asking myself over and over again what would have happened if the twins hadn’t rescued me. I felt so cold. I considered calling the police. But what would I tell them? That Dan Snyder had shouted at me? That wasn’t against the law. And he hadn’t broken into my house. Vesta had invited him inside. Vesta!

  I climbed out of my chair and marched down the hallway. I knocked on her door.

  “Go away!” she shouted.

  I looked down at the doorknob. There was no lock on this door. I could just walk in. But…

  I thought of the years Vesta had spent in a psychiatric facility. There were no locks on the doors of the patients’ rooms there either. They had no privacy, not even in the bathroom. I shook my head. I couldn’t do it. Opening that door would be like putting her in an institution all over again. I sighed and walked back down the hall.

  Minutes later, I was at my desk again, still feeling weak but a little warmer. As I picked up the State Board of Equalization’s Sales and Use Tax form, I wondered why the twins had come to my house in the first place. Had I missed another appointment? I looked at my calendar. It was blank for the day except for my date with Ann—and a note about the taxes that were due. I turned my calculator on and began jabbing the keys.

  Barbara showed up an hour later, looking perfect in turquoise linen.

  “Hey, kiddo,” she sang as she breezed in. “You look terrible.”

  “Barbara!” I objected.

  “What happened?” she asked, her tiny body quivering like a pointer on
a scent.

  “Dan Snyder visited,” I answered briefly.

  “And…” she prodded.

  I knew from experience that it was no use trying to avoid her questions. I told her the whole story, standing there in the entryway. Then I waited for her reaction. She scrunched up her beautiful face and nodded slowly.

  “You’re not in any shape to drive to Gary and Paula’s,” she said finally. “I’ll drive.” Then she led the way out the door to her Volkswagen bug.

  I was so dazed, I followed her.

  We had just pulled onto the freeway when I suddenly remembered why I usually refused Barbara’s offers to drive. She turned to me, explaining why she now thought that Ken was our murderer, while she guided her Volkswagen into the next lane, two feet in front of a barreling lumber truck’s front bumper.

  “Look out!” I yelped to the sound of squealing brakes.

  “Kate, you know they never hit me,” she said and continued with her theory.

  I couldn’t say what that theory was. It was wiped from my memory banks by the near collision with a Mercedes when Barbara switched lanes again. I closed my eyes for the rest of the trip across the Richmond Bridge and into the Berkeley hills. But I could still hear the squeals, honks and curses from the other cars.

  When we arrived at Paula and Gary’s house I got out of the car and knelt on their blacktop driveway.

  “What are you doing?” asked Barbara.

  “I’m kissing the ground,” I told her. “I thought I’d never see it again.”

  “Get up, you wacko!” she ordered, laughing. She dragged me to the front door.

  Paula and Gary lived in a two-story stucco house perched on the side of a steep hill. There was a small garden in front with yellow and orange nasturtiums running riot. Potted red geraniums lined the walkway.

  Barbara rang the bell, but we’d barely heard its chime before barking and yipping ensued from inside the house.

  “Did you tell them we were coming?” I asked anxiously.

  Barbara nodded. Something thumped against the door. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be there when the door opened.

  “Get down!” came a disembodied voice. There were more assorted thumps and yips and barks. “Down!” shouted the voice. “Down!”