Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  The door opened a crack. Paula Pierce peeked out. “Back, get back!” she shouted over her shoulder as she waved us in.

  I followed Barbara in reluctantly. Paula shut the door quickly behind us and the dogs exploded again.

  A graying Labrador retriever almost knocked Barbara over as it jumped up to lick her face. I was glad she was in front.

  “Down!” Paula shouted again. She wasn’t in a business suit today. Blue jeans and an “Oil Isn’t Worth Dying For” T-shirt clothed her stocky body.

  A small, yipping, unshaved poodle scurried around in back of me and leapt with military precision to shove its nose into the center of my buttocks. Luckily, my yelp was inaudible over the general din. One of a matched set of two beagles sauntered over and leaned against my leg, looking sad. I bent over to pet him. The poodle took its opportunity to leap again. I jerked straight up as its nose goosed me the second time.

  “Down, Emma! Down, Cesare! Down, Joe! Down, Joan!” Paula commanded. The animals were still for a moment.

  Paula quickly ushered us into an adjoining room equipped with glass doors, telling the animals to “stay,” in no uncertain terms. And they did, whining and begging the whole time, but remaining miraculously in place until the doors were shut. Then they lined up to stare at us through the glass, their eyes beseeching.

  “Sorry about that welcoming committee,” came a rich baritone from beside us.

  I turned my head and saw Gary Powell. I had forgotten how attractive the man was. The smile he greeted us with stretched all the way across his good-natured face. His brown eyes exuded warmth and serenity.

  “A seat?” he offered, indicating a long beige couch.

  Barbara and I sat down and were swallowed up by the plush cushions. I tried to think of something to say. Barbara beat me to it.

  “What a nice room!” she gushed.

  I ran my eyes around the room. It was nice. There were plenty of windows and skylights illuminating the beige-and-white interior. And they were all filled with crystals, which reflected random rainbow fragments of light onto the carpet, bookcases and walls, even across the bottom of a Martin Luther King poster on one wall and the edge of Picasso’s “Guernica” on the other.

  Gary flopped into a cocoa-colored lounger across from us. Paula pulled up a straight-back wooden chair next to him. Colored lights danced merrily off her salt-and-pepper hair as she sat down. But her face was serious, her mouth pursed tight. She stared at us unblinkingly.

  “Nice,” I echoed Barbara weakly. I forced my face into a friendly smile.

  “I’ve advised my husband to speak to you about the night of the murder,” Paula said briskly. “But under no circumstances will he—”

  “It’s okay, honey,” Gary interrupted, his voice soft but firm. He looked into her eyes. “I didn’t kill the woman. Nobody thinks I did.”

  “Well…” said Paula doubtfully.

  “Everything’s fine,” Gary assured her. He reached a long arm out and squeezed her shoulder gently, then turned his gaze back in our direction. “What did you want to know?”

  I turned to Barbara. I didn’t want to be the one to ask the questions. I was already embarrassed to be here, intruding on Paula and Gary’s time together.

  “Can you tell us what you did during the class break?” Barbara asked cheerfully. Apparently, she wasn’t embarrassed. “It might help us figure out where everyone was.”

  “Let’s see,” Gary rumbled, leaning back in his chair, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. He pulled his arm from around Paula’s shoulders and stuck his hand in his pocket.

  “Paula and I talked to Meg for a very short time—probably two or three minutes. I’m sorry I can’t be more exact,” he said. His hand came out of his pocket with something in it. A crystal? “Then Paula had to go to the john. I waited for her. Then we went outside—to the little park across the street.”

  “Who else did you see?” Barbara pressed.

  He looked at her for a moment, then back up at the ceiling. As he rolled the contents of one hand to the other, I saw that I had guessed correctly. It was a crystal.

  “I think everyone else was gone from the restaurant by the time we finished talking to Meg,” he answered slowly. “When we went to the park we saw your friend Kate.” He nodded toward me and smiled. “And the silver-haired woman, I can’t remember her name—”

  “Iris,” Paula supplied.

  He nodded. “Later, we saw the man in the linen suit—”

  “Leo,” said Paula.

  “And his friend,” Gary finished.

  Paula didn’t give Ken a name. Maybe she had forgotten.

  “That lunatic interrupted Gary’s class,” she said instead, her face and voice both tight with anger.

  “Ken?” asked Barbara.

  “No, no!” Paula said impatiently. “Dan Snyder. He came to Gary’s class and started raving. Racial epithets, accusations that Gary had been sleeping with his wife!” She shook her head. “They had to call campus security to remove him.”

  “It’s okay,” soothed Gary, putting his arm around her shoulder again. “No one believed what he said. He didn’t attack me physically.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” Paula insisted. “I don’t like knowing there’s a madman out there.” She crossed her arms. “It’s like those murders when we were in Oregon. A woman we knew was one of the victims. Only an acquaintance, but still. And they never found the killer—”

  Paula stopped speaking abruptly. Her eyes narrowed. God, I wished I could read minds. Did she suspect Gary? He looked calm enough. I glanced at Barbara, hoping her psychic powers were working.

  “Anyway,” Paula continued briskly. “Something needs to be done about that man.”

  “Dan’s harassed me too,” I offered. “He came—”

  The sound of the dogs exploding into renewed barks, yips and thumps cut me off.

  “Paloma must be home,” said Gary with a smile. “Our daughter,” he explained.

  We heard a new, higher voice crying, “Down! Down!”

  Then a beautiful young woman burst in through the glass doors. She had Gary’s warm brown eyes, and his height and slender build. But the firmness of her mouth belonged to Paula. Her skin was a flawless blend of both parents’ genes. She looked old enough to be finishing high school, maybe starting college.

  “Mom,” she rapped out. “Have you been smoking again?”

  I turned back to Paula in time to see her face redden. She recovered quickly, making introductions all around and telling Paloma that we were there to discuss Sheila Snyder’s death. Paloma flopped down on the couch next to me.

  “Are you guys real detectives?” she asked eagerly.

  I shook my head. Barbara just chuckled.

  It didn’t take long for Barbara to get back to interrogating Gary, but the results were disappointing. Gary didn’t seem to know any more than we did. Actually, he seemed to know a lot less.

  “Do you have any idea who killed her?”’ she asked Gary finally, a hint of desperation in her tone.

  “No,” he answered thoughtfully. “But it’s probably only a matter of time. Once the police know all the variables—”

  “Daddy!” Paloma objected. “Life isn’t just an equation, you know.”

  “I stand corrected,” Gary replied with a bow of his head. “Actually, life is more like a series of simultaneous equations, which must be solved simultaneously. If they’re to be solved at all.”

  Paloma groaned loudly and rolled her beautiful eyes. Then she got up and gave her father a kiss on the cheek.

  “No more cigarettes,” she told her mother sternly, then exited the room to the joyous barks and yips of the four family dogs.

  “She’s a beautiful girl,” Barbara said once she was gone.

  Paula and Gary smiled together for a change.

  “We love her,” Gary said simply.

  Then Paula’s face tightened again. “I worry about the two Snyder children,” she said. “The fact that
Sheila Snyder would hit a child in front of witnesses indicates an even worse pattern of abuse behind closed doors.” She sighed. “The children are bound to be further traumatized by their mother’s death. And the father is probably abusive himself.”

  “You don’t know any of that for sure,” Gary admonished gently.

  “I can recognize the signs of child abuse,” she argued. “Remember, I was abused myself.”

  THIRTEEN

  THE ROOM WAS quiet for a few moments. I could hear Paloma and the dogs knocking around in some other part of the house as I stared down at a rainbow shimmering across the toes of my sneakers. I didn’t know what to say. Barbara did, though.

  “I know about abuse, too,” she blurted out. “My father used to hit me all the time.” Lines of anger creased her face. “Hard,” she added.

  Paula leaned forward in a mirror reflection of Barbara’s posture. “My mother was the one who beat me,” she revealed. “For anything. For nothing. It didn’t matter.”

  They both shook their heads indignantly. Barbara couldn’t have created more rapport with Paula if she had tried. For a moment I wondered if she had tried, if her revelations had been meant to manipulate Paula. But a look at the stiff set of her shoulders convinced me otherwise. After a few more moments of angry silence, Gary cleared his throat.

  “Well, my dear,” he said to Paula in an exaggerated upperclass accent. “You most certainly have had your revenge.” His warm brown eyes were twinkling. “You married a black man.”

  Paula leaned back in her chair and laughed. It was a great laugh. Full-bodied and unrestrained. I was surprised she had it in her. She laughed until there were tears in her eyes.

  “I did indeed get my revenge,” she agreed, wiping the edge of her eye with her index finger. She put a loving hand on Gary’s arm. “And it was worth it. In more ways than one.”

  She turned back to Barbara and me, smiling. “My mother would have probably joined the KKK if it weren’t for the sort of ‘riffraff’ they allow in their membership. When I married Gary I effectively divorced Mother. A two-for-one deal. The best deal I ever made.”

  “Hmm,” muttered Barbara, pretending to think. “It has possibilities.”

  As everyone laughed, my mind went back to Paula’s act of revenge. Killing a parent caught in the act of hitting a child might be an even greater revenge for an adult who had survived her own abuse. Was this a motive? I remembered what Ann had said about most mental disorders arising from childhood abuse—

  The glass doors burst open before I could finish the thought. Paloma swept into the room, her eyebrows raised in what looked like surprise.

  “Dad, did you leave food out on the counter?” she demanded. Uh-oh. Maybe the look was anger.

  “I didn’t think they’d eat tofu, for God’s sake,” Gary muttered as he rose from his lounger and sprinted out the door. “That was for dinner, a recipe of Meg’s…”

  Paloma followed him out. His voice died away as he disappeared from view.

  “Dogs,” Paula explained, rolling her eyes. “My kids adopt them.” She stood up. “I guess I’d better untangle the mess.”

  Barbara and I stood too. The interview was clearly over.

  “I wish you luck on your investigation,” Paula said as she led us back to the front door. Her voice was considerably warmer than it had been when she’d showed us in. “Keep in touch,” she added and opened the door to let us out.

  I was bursting with questions as we headed toward the car. What had stopped Paula Pierce mid-sentence when she was talking about the murders in Oregon? And Gary—why had he needed to assure her that he hadn’t killed Sheila? Then there was the child abuse issue. Could that be—

  Barbara opened the door to the Volkswagen. All the questions left my mind as thirty pounds of compressed dread sank to the bottom of my stomach. Barbara was driving. How could I have forgotten!

  I got in the car and placed my hands over my eyes. Barbara revved the engine and took off.

  We made it across the bridge without getting hit. But there were a few near misses. At least that’s what they sounded like.

  “Leo’s gallery is just above San Ricardo,” Barbara announced cheerfully as she took 101 north. “I hope they’re open late. It’s almost five.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled.

  “I haven’t been able to get hold of Ken on the phone,” she continued. “All I get is his answering machine. I’ve left messages, but he hasn’t returned them. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

  A horn blared somewhere close by. I shuddered.

  “Well?” prodded Barbara. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should keep your eyes on the road,” I answered.

  She laughed merrily. I was glad that somebody was happy.

  We parked in front of Leo’s gallery two squeals and three honks later. I didn’t bother to kiss the ground after I got out of the Volkswagen. I knew I’d just have to get back in and let Barbara drive some more once we were finished here.

  The gallery was located in a storefront, sandwiched between Ed’s Hardware and Jeanne’s Art Supplies. That was certainly convenient for the exhibiting artists, I thought. But I wasn’t sure how good a location it was for drawing the kind of people who would buy art.

  The turquoise neon script in the window read “Conn-Tempo Gallery.” As Barbara pushed the door open I wondered what the name meant. It was probably a stylish way to say contemporary, but the words “contempt” and “con” as in conning someone into buying expensive artwork did enter my mind.

  “Wow,” I whispered once we were inside.

  The small room was stuffed with artwork. It couldn’t have been much larger than my living room, though it did have a high, accommodating ceiling. It had to. It was filled to the brim with paintings, sculptures, ceramics and twisted neon. Naked ladies, abstracts and heavy metal predominated. Heavy metal sculpture, that is. A ten-foot monstrosity in the center of the crowded room combined all three themes. It was definitely metal, definitely abstract, and I could tell it was female by the seven steel breasts that ran diagonally up its flank. The other sculptures clustered around it were harder to place. Altogether, the room looked like a mad scientist’s storeroom. An artistic mad scientist, of course.

  “Look at this,” Barbara hissed from the nearest wall.

  I made my way past a few more metal monstrosities and a twisted neon object that reminded me of those things people used to make out of balloons at county fairs. Barbara was pointing at the corner of an oil painting depicting a woman naked to the waist, holding a whip. The proportions were off, giving it an unpleasant, skewed perspective. The name painted boldly in the corner was “Leo.”

  “Do you think he did that perspective on purpose—?” I began.

  “Shhh,” warned Barbara, nudging me in the ribs. She pointed across the room.

  Leo’s short, plump behind was facing us. He was in a black sweatshirt and tight black jeans today. Not a pretty sight. He was pressed up against a young blond woman almost a head taller than he was.

  “Come on, baby,” he said, aiming a kiss toward her lips. “Give me some tongue.”

  She turned her head to the side and pushed him away.

  “Chill out, Leo,” she snapped. Then her voice softened. “Okay?” she asked.

  Leo shrugged. “Later, baby,” he said amiably.

  He turned and spotted Barbara and me standing in front of his painting. He stroked his beard, then tossed his long black hair out of his face with a flick of his head. It was a strangely coquettish movement.

  “Interested in the painting?” he inquired as he stepped in our direction.

  “No—” I began.

  “Yes,” Barbara contradicted.

  I smelled Leo when he was within a yard of us. Eau-de-vino, his usual scent. He stepped nearer, his closely spaced eyes intent on Barbara’s face. The smell of partially metabolized alcohol was overpowering.

  “That’s my work,” he announced proudly.


  “Is it really?” Barbara trilled. “It’s so…”

  Even Barbara couldn’t finish that one.

  “Interesting,” I supplied.

  His glance landed on my face, then continued down my body. “Haven’t I met you somewhere before?” he asked with a suggestive wink.

  “Of course you have,” I answered impatiently. “The vegetarian cooking class.”

  His face paled, highlighting the cerise tracings of broken blood vessels on his nose and cheeks. For a moment I wondered if he was going to pass out. But he recovered quickly.

  “I couldn’t possibly forget a beautiful face like yours,” he cooed, his skin color evening out to a uniform red once more. “Or yours,” he added, turning to Barbara. He stroked his beard slowly.

  Ugh. Neither his words nor his odor were doing my now queasy stomach any favors.

  “What can you tell us about the night of the murder?” Barbara asked without further preamble. I had a feeling she wanted to get this interview over with as quickly as I did.

  Leo flinched but answered, “It was an awful night, wasn’t it? It all seems like a blur now…”

  If you drink that much, everything probably is a blur, I thought uncharitably as he rambled on. Nothing he said was particularly enlightening. He claimed to have walked to a liquor store at the break. He said he’d never met Sheila Snyder before. And the sight of the body had made him sick.

  “How about your friend Ken?” Barbara asked as he paused for air.

  “What about him?” Leo shot back. His small eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking all these questions, anyway?”

  “We’re helping the police,” I interjected. Barbara smiled. It wasn’t a complete lie. If we happened to find a murderer for them, that would be a help.

  “Ken was with me the whole time,” Leo said. He was cooperating again, but there was a new wariness in his tone. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Where does Ken work?” Barbara pressed.

  “You’ll have to ask him,” Leo told us. “I’ve got work to do.” He turned and began to walk away.

  “Wait!” Barbara shouted.