Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “No, I never had the pleasure,” Barbara said quietly, her tone almost matching Iris’s. “Did you know Dan and Sheila?”

  “No, not really,” Iris admitted. “I’m ashamed to say I didn’t connect either of them to Rose until I saw her the night of the murder.” She shook her head sadly. I wondered how well she really knew Rose Snyder.

  “You must have met a lot of interesting people in this county,” Barbara flattered shamelessly. “I’ll bet you know some of the people in the cooking class, too.”

  “Only Leo Hermann, I’m afraid,” Iris told us, a frown on her handsome face.

  “Leo Hermann?” echoed Barbara.

  “Leo Hermann is lechy Leo,” I whispered in her ear.

  “Actually, I can only claim a nodding acquaintance with Leo,” Iris continued, oblivious to my whisper. “Louise Hermann is more of a friend. Such a good human being. Her parents were quite wealthy. Meat packing, you know. But what she has to put up with from her husband! The artistic temperament can be very trying.” She sighed. “It’s all very sad.”

  I nodded knowingly, wondering what exactly was so sad.

  “You must know Ken too, then,” Barbara prodded.

  Iris’s blue gaze sharpened. “Do you mean Louise’s boy?”

  “Yeah, Ken,” Barbara answered. “He came with Leo to the cooking class.”

  Iris’s frown gave way to a large smile. “You mean that was Kenny?” she exclaimed in apparent delight. “He’s so big now! Why, he was no more than eight years old the last time I saw him.”

  Barbara and I smiled back, waiting for her to go on.

  “Such artistic hands the boy had,” she obliged. “Did he become an artist?”

  “No,” I told her. “An accountant.”

  The large smile disappeared. I’d have bet that Ken Hermann’s hands would never make it to her photo collection now. Unless he was our murderer, of course.

  “Well,” she said, pulling her shoulders even straighter. “I must let you two go. Such fun meeting you like this.”

  We made polite noises and left quietly. Then we watched from the Toyota as Iris rang the B buzzer and was admitted to the Good Thyme Cafe.

  I started the engine.

  “How well do you think Iris really knows these people?” I asked Barbara as I pulled away from the curb.

  “Not very,” she said, shrugging.

  That was a pretty short answer for Barbara. She was staring at the dashboard, her forehead crinkled into a frown, her eyes somewhere else. I almost asked her what was wrong, but then decided she’d tell me if she needed to.

  I drove in silence for a while, brooding over my own worries. We were almost home when Barbara spoke again.

  “Is there a back door to the Good Thyme?” she asked in a whisper.

  I turned to stare at her, then brought my eyes back to the road, and my Toyota back into my lane. It had been drifting over the yellow line. I hoped Barbara’s driving style wasn’t catching.

  “Why do you want to know?” I asked her back.

  “Suppose the murderer is Dan Snyder, or Rose Sndyer. Or someone we don’t even know about yet,” she replied, her voice at full volume now but still grave. “How did they get into the building to murder Sheila Snyder?”

  “Through the front door…” I stopped to think. Would the killer have risked being seen by the members of the cooking class?

  “A back door would make more sense,” Barbara said after a moment or two.

  “Maybe,” I agreed halfheartedly. I turned into my street. “But the murderer still had to leave the pantry without being seen.”

  “That’s not as hard,” she answered quickly. “A fast look up and down the hallway and you’re out.”

  In my mind’s eye I would see a picture of Barbara doing just that. Goose bumps prickled the skin on my arms as I pulled into my driveway.

  “It wasn’t me,” Barbara said. Her voice deepened as she added thoughtfully, “But it could have been someone from the cooking class, someone who was supposed to be outside.”

  I turned off the engine and took a good look at her. I had rarely seen her beautiful face look so stern.

  “We gotta go up to the Good Thyme tonight and check out the doors,” she told me.

  “Oh no, we don’t,” I disagreed firmly, getting out of the Toyota. “No midnight visits to murder scenes.” I slammed the door.

  “Wait, wait!” she called, scrambling out of her side of the car. “Not midnight, Kate. Twilight. The same time that Sheila was killed.”

  I marched up the stairs, shaking my head violently. “No,” I repeated. Suddenly, I was tired of this amateur investigation.

  Barbara trotted up behind me. “Come on, kiddo,” she cajoled, her voice lighter now. “We don’t need to break in or anything. We’ve just gotta find the door and see what it looks like at twilight.”

  “Why?” I asked, keeping my voice even with an effort. I didn’t want to see the Good Thyme again. Not now. Not ever. I could feel anger rising, cramping my chest.

  “Jeez-Louise, Kate! Because I may feel something there!” Barbara shouted. “Don’t you see?”

  “No, I don’t see!” I shouted back. I glared at Barbara. She glared back, her narrowed eyes ugly to me for an instant.

  “Why are we arguing?” I asked after a minute had gone by.

  “Because you don’t wanna drive up with me tonight to look at the back door of the Good Thyme Cafe,” she answered loudly, as if I were deaf. Then the glare receded. A foolish grin took its place.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling a little foolish myself.

  “But you will,” she told me, the grin widening. She turned and trotted back down the stairs. “See you at seven-thirty,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  No wonder I was mad at her, I thought, and yanked the front door open.

  I almost hoped I’d run into Vesta. I was in the mood to clarify our relationship…the hard way. But she was nowhere in sight. I heard her footsteps moving out of range down the hallway and then the slam of her door. Maybe she knew what kind of mood I was in. She’d probably been listening as Barbara and I argued. I wouldn’t have put it past her. I let out a long sigh and headed for my desk.

  Wayne got home some hours later. I had finished my work for the day on the ophthalmologist necktie and was processing mail orders.

  He walked into my office, carrying a grocery bag under each arm.

  “Stuffed tomatoes and mushrooms Dijon over spinach noodles, tonight,” he announced quietly. There was a shy smile on his face.

  I jumped out of my chair to hug him. “How’d you know I needed cheering—?” I began.

  “Why doesn’t she ever cook you dinner?” Vesta interrupted, appearing out of nowhere like a bad genie.

  I stopped in place, a yard away from him.

  “Because that’s our agreement, Mom,” he explained gently. He carried the groceries into the kitchen. “We each cook our own meals. Kate’s a vegetarian. I’m not. Can’t expect her to cook for me. This is just a little treat—”

  “Are you celebrating throwing me out?” Vesta demanded as she followed him in.

  “Now, Mom,” Wayne objected. “You know I’ll take good care of you.”

  I went back to my desk, gritting my teeth to keep from speaking. This was their private battle, I reminded myself and sat down.

  “Well, don’t count your chickens, Waynie,” Vesta hissed all too audibly. “I’m not gone yet.”

  Now my stomach muscles tightened. This was the disadvantage of using my dining room for a home office. I could hear everything they said from the kitchen.

  Wayne sighed. I even heard that.

  I turned on my adding machine and began humming.

  “Got you a nice piece of steak, Mom,” he offered. “From my restaurant downtown. Marbled just the way you like it.”

  “Do you think I can eat when I know you and that woman are plotting to get rid of me?” she asked, her voice suddenly tearful and wavering.

 
Damn. It was time for the violins. I hurried down the hall to the bedroom, grabbed my boom box and brought it back to my office. I tuned in a classical music station. Orchestral harmony poured forth from small speakers. I let my jaw relax. And yes, there in the background, I could hear violins.

  “I’m just scared, Waynie,” Vesta’s voice intruded from the kitchen. “And I don’t feel good. I get these heart palpitations…”

  I ground my teeth and turned the sound up.

  An hour later Wayne tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped in my chair. I hadn’t heard his approach over the blare of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.

  My plate was waiting for me at the kitchen table. Unfortunately, Vesta was too. She squinted malevolently across the table at me as I took my seat. I forced a smile onto my face. Wayne sat down on the chair between us.

  “Looks great!” I said enthusiastically as I gazed down at my plate. My enthusiasm wasn’t entirely feigned. The food was attractive, despite the company.

  Two prim, stuffed tomatoes topped with bread crumbs sat next to a mound of green pasta covered in sautéed mushrooms. I sniffed and caught a whiff of wine and mustard.

  Wayne was a good cook, much better than I was. I popped a bite of mushrooms and pasta into my mouth. Yum. Heaven clothed in a tart-and-sweet sauce with onions and red bell peppers. I savored the flavors, then reached over to pat Wayne’s thigh in recognition of his culinary skills. He looked pleased and cut a piece from his steak. I have often suspected that Wayne’s agreement to cook separate meals was based less on democratic principles than on the needs of his palate. I took another bite of pasta. And another.

  I had gobbled all but the last mouthful of tomatoes, stuffed with minced vegetables, herbs and soy cheese, when the doorbell rang. I looked up from my plate. Vesta was still glaring. Her meal remained untouched in front of her.

  The doorbell rang again. Wayne rose from the table to answer it. I shoved the last bite into my mouth and sat back in my chair, stuffed.

  “Hey, Wayne,” came Barbara’s voice from the entryway. “How’s it going?”

  As Wayne mumbled a reply, all the delicious food he had cooked for me congealed into one hard lump in my stomach. Barbara. I had forgotten Barbara.

  “Hey, kiddo,” she said as she came into the kitchen. “Ready to go?”

  “I guess so,” I mumbled, looking up at Wayne behind her. His eyebrows were down, his feelings closed off from view. “We’ll just be gone a little while,” I promised him as I stood up.

  “Ask them where they’re going,” Vesta ordered Wayne quickly.

  “Now, Mom,” he protested softly, but his face turned in my direction.

  “They’re going to break into that restaurant, the place where the woman was killed,” Vesta informed him.

  “We’re not—” I began.

  “Kate?” said Wayne, his deep voice a question.

  “We are not going to break in,” I told him evenly. “We’re just going to look for entrances—”

  “Huh!” snorted Vesta.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” I suggested to Wayne, pointedly ignoring Vesta.

  “I’ll get my coat,” he agreed, and turned to leave the kitchen. I let out the breath I had been holding.

  “Waynie!” Vesta called out.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned back. I caught a glimpse of his eyes. They looked desperate.

  “You’re not going to leave me here alone, are you?” she asked, her voice quavering like that of a woman at least twenty years her senior. She brought her hand up to her heart. “These palpitations…” She faltered.

  Wayne stayed. Vesta smiled smugly at me from behind his back as I gave him a goodbye kiss. Then she cut into her steak.

  “Jeez-Louise,” Barbara muttered when we were in the car. “What broomstick did your mother-in-law fly in on?”

  “Mother-in-common-law,” I corrected automatically.

  That about did it for conversation on the way up to the Good Thyme. Barbara’s psychic powers must have told her I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

  Once we got there, things became a little more complicated. We had missed twilight by at least twenty minutes. It was dark now. Very dark.

  But at least parking was no problem. I found a space right in front. The CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign was still up in the restaurant window.

  “Do you think Dan Snyder’s here?” I whispered as I got out of the Toyota.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Barbara assured me, pulling two flashlights out of her purse. “He’ll never see us.”

  My body didn’t believe her. My hand was shaking as I reached for my flashlight.

  “You go around the left, I’ll go around the right,” Barbara ordered. Her voice was vibrating with excitement. It was then that I remembered that one of her favorite TV shows had been Mission Impossible. “We’ll meet in the back,” she added in a whisper. The hair went up on the back of my neck.

  Barbara’s flashlight didn’t stop me from tripping over the bags of garbage around the side of the building. I landed on my knees with a rubbery squish. The smell of rotting vegetables drifted up. I stifled a curse and made my way around to the back of the building, shaking as I went and hoping I didn’t have anything too disgusting on my pants now.

  Sure enough, there was a door in the back. But Barbara was nowhere in sight. I shined the beam of my flashlight on the frosted glass set in the top of the door. A light was switched on somewhere inside, illuminating the glass. Then I heard the sound of footsteps. I looked behind me, hoping they belonged to Barbara. They didn’t. They were coming from inside the building.

  I clicked off the flashlight and watched as the shadow of what looked like a man grew in the frosted glass. My shaking hands began to sweat. The shadow turned in profile. It was definitely a man. His hand reached up with something in it.

  I gasped without thinking. The something in his hand looked very much like a gun.

  SIXTEEN

  THE SHADOW IN the frosted glass flickered at the sound of my gasp. Then it slowly moved, the profile changing into something that could have been either the front or the back of a man. Dan Snyder? Dread took hold of my chest and squeezed.

  The doorknob squeaked as it turned.

  “Barbara!” I screamed.

  The door burst open, and still I couldn’t see anything but a shadowy figure standing in the doorway. I was blinded by the light behind him.

  I screamed again and heard the sound of running footsteps somewhere near me.

  “Freeze!” came a shout from the figure in front of me. “Police!”

  Police? The word began to make sense to me when my eyesight returned. The man confronting me was in uniform. In uniform and holding a gun out in front of him with both hands. The dread vacated my chest and entered my stomach with a flare of nausea.

  “Kate?” came a whispered voice from my side. Then, “Jeez-Louise!”

  The officer turned the gun in Barbara’s direction.

  “Don’t shoot—”

  “We were just—”

  Barbara and I babbled out pleas and explanations until we ran out of words. The uniformed man finally lowered his gun. I recognized him as the same Hispanic officer who had responded to Paula’s phone call the evening Sheila Snyder had been killed. Unfortunately, he recognized us too.

  “You were there the night of the murder,” he accused, his voice deep and vibrating with suspicion.

  That was the last thing he said, besides telling us to get in his squad car and accompany him to the San Ricardo police station. And telling us to be quiet.

  The police station wasn’t any fun. Nor was my phone call to Wayne, explaining why I would be late getting home.

  Barbara and I sat on the molded fiberglass chairs in the waiting room, dutifully silent. But my mind was racing. Were we under arrest? No one had read us our rights. Didn’t they have to do that if they were arresting us? And what would we be charged with, anyway? We hadn’t broken into the Good Thyme. But we probably
had been trespassing on private property, my mind chipped in. My mouth went dry.

  I turned and looked at Barbara. Her eyes were closed. Her lovely face looked peaceful. How the hell did she manage that? My own body felt weak and nauseated from the recent barrage of adrenaline, and I was sure my face didn’t look lovely or peaceful. I stared at her, wondering why she had taken so long to get to the back of the restaurant. What had she been doing?

  The front door opened before I could come up with an answer. Wayne strode in, his face as cold and still as granite. I smiled up at him weakly. He didn’t return my smile. He was too busy marching up to the officer behind the bulletproof glass.

  “What are the charges against Kate Jasper and Barbara Chu?” he demanded.

  The officer looked startled.

  “I don’t know—” he began.

  New footsteps sounded from the doorway.

  “We just want to have a little talk with them,” came Sergeant Oakley’s musical voice. She was wearing jeans and a pumpkin-colored sweatshirt that almost matched her red hair.

  Wayne turned and glared. Oakley didn’t flinch.

  “And you are?” she inquired, a warm smile on her freckled face.

  “Wayne Caruso,” he answered. Then more softly he added, “Friend of Kate Jasper’s.”

  “Well, why don’t you have a seat while I talk to Ms. Jasper?” she suggested.

  Wayne sat down obediently. I wondered if he would have been so obedient if Sergeant Oakley had been a man. Then Sergeant Oakley nodded at me. I followed her into the interrogation room, adrenaline surging through my body once more.

  I told her everything. She was still a good listener. A wave of annoyance passed over her good-natured face when I related what Barbara and I had been looking for at the back of the Good Thyme. I had a feeling the police had already checked for rear entrances. I also had a feeling that Sergeant Oakley had come in on her time off just to talk to us. I was glad to see her expression change to amusement when I described tripping over the garbage and seeing the gun in the frosted glass window.