Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Her death is really troubling to me,” Tony said with typical understatement, his quiet voice sounding sincerely troubled. Uneasily, I remembered all those National Enquirer murderers of whom the neighbors always say, “he was such a nice man,” after the fact.

  We agreed to meet at The Elegant Vegetable for lunch the next day. At least I’d get a good meal.

  My next move had to be a call to Nick Taos. I was looking up his number in the phone book when I heard another car crunch the driveway gravel.

  I went to the window and peered out. A white Volvo was parked under my apple tree. Linda Zatara’s white Volvo. My heart began to beat erratically. I had almost forgotten the Volvo’s near crash into my Toyota this morning. Here, on my street. And here was Linda again. I told my heart to settle down as I watched her get out of her car, look to both sides and climb the stairs to my front door.

  I was at my door before she pushed the bell. What did she want from me? Her face was as expressionless as usual when I opened up. She surveyed me with cool grey eyes, as if from a distance.

  “Sarah,” she whispered.

  I moved from my position blocking the doorway and motioned her into the living room. She walked slowly past the pinball machines to sit on the couch.

  “Did you read about it in the I.J.?” I asked, flopping down into one of the swinging chairs.

  She nodded.

  “God,” I said, shaking my head. “It had to be murder. But who would murder Sarah? She called me the other night—”

  I saw a flicker in the grey eyes. I stopped mid-babble.

  “She called you,” Linda prompted.

  “Nothing,” I said uneasily. “It was nothing.” I didn’t like the grey ice in her eyes any more than usual. I shivered, feeling physically chilled by her coolness. Why was she here?

  I rubbed my hands together to combat the cold. “Were you coming to see me earlier?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “About Sarah,” I prompted.

  She nodded again. Damn. How could I get her to talk? An inner voice asked me if I really wanted to get her to talk. What if—

  “Can I get you some tea?” I asked, cutting off the voice.

  She shook her head.

  “Water?” I offered desperately.

  She nodded.

  Linda followed me into the kitchen. The sun shone into the room, bouncing cheerfully off the cream-colored walls. But I felt trapped by Linda’s dark, silent presence.

  Then C.C. came skidding around the corner into the kitchen as if summoned. The atmosphere seemed to lighten. C.C. issued an interrogatory yowl for food. I told her it wasn’t lunch time yet. She dropped onto the floor and began industriously licking between her back legs. I chuckled and glanced at Linda to share a smile. Linda stared back without a change in expression. Not a cat person, I remembered, stiffening. Not a human person either.

  I walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Calistoga water. Then I turned. Linda was right behind me. I jumped. I hadn’t heard her following on my heels.

  “What did Sarah talk to you about?” she asked, pushing her face close to mine. Up close her grey eyes didn’t seem totally lifeless. There was a pinpoint of light in her pupils, like a light at the end of a long tunnel.

  I was trembling as I handed her the Calistoga. I stepped sideways and around her to sit at the kitchen table, where I nervously straightened papers and books. Then I took some deep breaths. The woman wasn’t going to attack me in my own home, I chided myself. She sat down across from me.

  “What did Sarah say?” she repeated in a monotone.

  “Nothing much,” my voice squeaked. I took another breath to get my voice under control. “Where did you meet Sarah?” I asked.

  “A group,” she answered. This was progress. A two-word reply. But before I could congratulate myself, she threw another question at me. “Do you know Tony’s secret?” she asked.

  Tony’s secret. Damn. Another little mystery I had managed to forget. I shook my head.

  “Do you know who left the death threat on Sarah’s answering machine?” Linda pressed.

  I shook my head again, wondering if I was looking at the person who had. My mouth felt very dry. Why had Linda been so quick to label the message a “death threat”?

  “Why do you want to know?” I demanded.

  Linda smiled a rare smile, her lips drawing back tightly from sharp, gleaming white teeth. She made no reply.

  “I don’t know anything,” I said, suddenly tired of this game. “She’s dead, murdered! I don’t know who did it. It could have been any one of us who had access to her computer. I saw them take her away—”

  I shut my mouth and clamped my lips together. I was babbling again. Was that what Linda wanted?

  I stood up. I wanted her out of my house. I centered myself in a tai chi posture. “I have to get back to work,” I told her firmly.

  Linda shrugged and left. It was only after she was gone that I thought of all the questions I could have asked her. Should have asked her. I sighed. She probably would have avoided them anyway. Especially the important questions. Had she murdered Sarah Quinn? And if so, why? I didn’t have a clue.

  I did a little more deep breathing, then resumed my search for Nick Taos’s number in the Marin County phone book. I hadn’t really expected to find him listed, but there was his name and number at the beginning of the T’s in black and white. I was surprised. I hadn’t thought recluses had telephones, much less listed phone numbers. I was further surprised when he answered my call. His “Hello” was high-pitched and loud.

  “Nick, my name is Kate Jasper,” I began.

  “Oh, you’re the one in the group who got a divorce and doesn’t want to get married again,” he bawled in my ear. If this was his idea of social skill, it was no wonder Sarah had kept him locked away.

  “Yeah, well, anyway,” I said impatiently. “Do you know about Sarah?”

  “Uh-huh, the police have been here,” he said loudly enough that I had to hold the telephone receiver away from my ear. Was he deaf? No, he had heard my question. I opened my mouth to ask another, but he cut me off before I could speak.

  “What will I do?” he wailed. “Sarah takes care of me! She takes care of everything! She gets my groceries! She buys my clothes! She’s the only one who knows how to take care of me! And she’s gone!” I held the phone further away from my ear. “What am I gonna do? I haven’t been to a grocery store in years! She kept saying we’d go together one day! Oh God, whatamIgonnado?” he bellowed. He was clearly not a verbal recluse.

  “How old are you?” I asked, truly curious.

  The question stopped his wailing. “I’m twenty-eight,” he mumbled. Then his voice got loud again, and defiant. “I’m an artist, you know. Sarah says I’m a genius. She moved me out from my parents’ to this house eight years ago so I could work in seclusion.”

  “Do you need me to bring anything over?” I asked slyly.

  “Would you really bring some stuff over?” he cried.

  “How about this afternoon?” I pressed. The fish had taken the bait. Now all I had to do was reel him in.

  “Oh, this afternoon’d be great,” he yelled. I pulled the phone away from my ear again. “I need hamburger and Mallomars and root beer and lots of stuff,” he told me.

  “Sarah let you eat that junk?” I asked without thinking.

  “Uh-huh.” His voice filled my ear. “Sarah used to try to make me eat brown rice and stuff, but finally she said it was like ‘trying to pound sand’ and gave up,” he explained. Sadly, I imagined Sarah saying that.

  “Now I eat anything I want,” Nick clamored on. “And I’m as healthy as she is… was—” His voice rose perilously.

  “Listen,” I said, cutting off the threat of hysterics. “I’ll see you in a few hours, all right?”

  “Uh-huh,” he answered and gave me a long, loud order of toxic substances to be delivered. He didn’t offer to reimburse me.

  After I hung up
, I picked up the phone book again and found Word Inc., Sarah’s former word-processing business, in the Yellow Pages. I briefly considered the ethics of pumping Myra for information under the guise of looking for word-processing help. Being in business myself, however, I didn’t like to con someone into believing they were going to make money off a nonexistent deal. Then I had an idea. I could really use some word-processing help. I had stacks of letters to write. I could act in good faith, recruiting some secretarial assistance at the same time that I examined Myra’s attitude toward Sarah. Feeling myself to be a woman of integrity once again, I rang up Word Inc.

  A friendly female voice answered.

  “This is Kate Jasper,” I told her. “I’d like to speak to Myra Klein.”

  “Were you interested in our word-processing services?” she asked politely.

  “Yes, I am,” I lied. Well, partially lied.

  “Then maybe I can help you. I’m Susan. What kind of services do you need?”

  I didn’t answer. I had clearly bungled my introduction. Damn. How was I going to extricate myself?

  “Hello, are you still there?” Susan asked.

  “Actually…” I said slowly, “I also wanted to talk to Myra about a mutual friend, Sarah Quinn.”

  “Oh,” said Susan in a cooler tone. Either she knew Sarah, knew of her, or knew of her recent death. In any case, the name alone seemed enough to lower her temperature. Or else Susan was just belatedly deciding I was more trouble than I was worth. She put me on hold.

  At least there was no piped music on their line. I tapped my fingers on the teak surface of my desk and looked at the bulletin board again. My eyes settled on a rare photo of Wayne that my friend Barbara had taken. His eyes were just visible under his low brows. I pulled the picture down from the board as a new voice came through the receiver.

  “This is Myra Klein,” the voice enunciated carefully. “What is it that you wanted?”

  I was beginning to think I was too embarrassment-prone for effective sleuthing. My cheeks were hot as I opened my mouth to speak.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Sarah,” I told her.

  “Are you a reporter?” she asked. Was it the telephone connection or was her voice trembling?

  “No, I’m a friend,” I assured her.

  She sighed, then spoke in a breathy rush. “As you may know, I haven’t been a friend of Sarah’s for some time. I’ve got some very mixed feelings about her right now.”

  “Did you know she was dead?” I asked.

  “Yes, a reporter called,” she answered quickly, then paused. “Look,” she finally said, her voice eager. “I do need to talk to someone about Sarah. Can we meet? I have this afternoon, after four o’clock, free.”

  “I’ll be there at four,” I told her. As I hung up, I felt perversely discomforted by her easy acquiescence. Why hadn’t she needed more convincing?

  I leaned back in my comfy chair and thought of all the work hours I was going to lose while pursuing the questions surrounding Sarah’s death. I picked up Wayne’s picture again as if to ask him what to do. Should I cancel all the appointments I had just made? Then, with a lurch of my stomach, I remembered. Sarah might still be alive if I hadn’t refused to visit her that night. I had to investigate. I had to know what my refusal had cost.

  The doorbell rang. Wayne? I wondered hopefully. I ran to the door and opened it. My ex-husband was on my doorstep.

  - Five -

  “Hey, lady, ya wanna buy a good set of encyclopedias?” Craig asked in his former New Jersey accent.

  I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling.

  He grinned. “No? Then how about some rug cleaner? Aura cleaner? Healing crystals? Herbal laxatives?”

  “Not funny,” I said, but a small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

  “How about a little support and comfort, then?” he suggested, his accent returning to California. The grin left his face. “I heard about Sarah.”

  My ex-husband, Craig, looked good as he stood there framed in the redwood doorway. He had left his suit jacket in the car. The white sleeves of his shirt billowed out from his grey pinstripe vest, hinting at hidden muscles. He brushed a few errant brown strands back into his groomed-for-success hair and surveyed me with puppy-dog eyes.

  I wished for a moment that we had our old post-separation friendship back. But that had passed when he lost his girlfriend. Now his brown eyes held that Why-can’t-you-fall-in-love-with-me-again? look.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look forbidding.

  He put up his hand as if to ward off my anger. “Just passing by,” he assured me. “Thought you might have a cup of herbal tea for a thirsty man.” He cocked his head and smiled a little-boy smile.

  Then I remembered that my ex-husband was something besides a pain in the rear. He was a computer expert! I stuck Wayne’s photo in my back pocket and silently ushered Craig in.

  At the kitchen table five minutes later I handed him his favorite mint tea, taking care not to touch his fingers. “How much do you know about Sarah’s death?” I asked him.

  “Just what I read in the paper,” he answered, shrugging. “Something about her being electrocuted in the hot tub. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her, but it’s still a shock.” He made a wry mouth and laughed. “Sorry, wrong word.”

  Then he looked into my eyes. “I thought of you, Kate,” he murmured softly.

  The tenderness of his expression almost snared me, until I noticed that familiar smirk lurking around his mouth. Was he setting me up for seduction? I averted my eyes from his face and reminded myself that the man was merely a good source of information.

  “Just how difficult would it be to program her robot to land in the hot tub?” I demanded. I kept my voice steady and hard. “How much experience would you need to pull it off?”

  He cocked his head again. “Are you sure you’ve really considered the advantages of owning an encyclopedia?” he asked.

  “Still not funny,” I told him. “Answer the question.”

  “It would depend,” he temporized. He shot me a sharp look. “Do you really need to know this?”

  “Yes,” I answered brusquely.

  He sighed and put down his cup, the tea untasted. “The robot is probably pretty easy to run, even to program, given that you’d seen it done before,” he admitted.

  “But would it show that you were the one who did it?” I pressed.

  “Not necessarily,” he said slowly, thinking. “All you’d have to do is delete any references if it did. You could just type in a different name and time for that matter, if those things were even required to get on the system.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” I told him, my thoughts crystallizing as I spoke. “For all her eccentricities, Sarah was a creature of habit. She meditated in the hot tub every evening around the same time. And she went into a pretty deep trance.” I looked at Craig for confirmation. He nodded.

  I went on. “Then there’s her sunken tub, and her robots that can plug themselves into the outdoor electrical outlets. What if…” I felt suddenly lightheaded. I took a breath and continued. “What if someone—someone who had the coordinates of the setup outside—programmed one of her robots to plug itself in, traverse the necessary distance, and plop itself into the hot tub at the given

  time? Could it have happened that way?” I asked him. I could feel my pulse pounding.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he replied reluctantly. He shrugged his shoulders and continued. “I guess it’d be possible. But only if the robot was programmed to override any signals it got to stop at the edge of the tub.” He stared off into space for a moment, thinking. “It probably would’ve been easy enough to program, though whoever programmed it would have needed to know about Sarah’s house. And about her habits and robots and computers.” His eyes widened. I could see he’d finally thought it through.

  “Holy shit, Kate! This means it must have been someone who knew Sarah,” he whispered urgently. He stared
into my eyes. “Messing around with this could be risky.”

  “Yes,” I agreed simply. I glared back at him. “Well?” I pressed. “Will you help?”

  He was silent for a moment. I continued to glare at him.

  “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “I’ll help.” He smiled weakly at me. “Knowing you, I’ll bet you already have a theory. And you’re going to ask questions till you find out if it’s right. But Kate”—his voice deepened—”this isn’t product research we’re talking about here.” He reached his hand across the table to touch mine.

  I removed my hand quickly. “You think it was murder, too,” I said.

  “I didn’t say that,” he squawked.

  “You know computers,” I insisted. “Could it have been an accident?”

  He took a huge gulp of his mint tea before answering. “If I talk to you about this, will you lay off asking other people questions?”

  “Probably not, but at least I won’t have to ask someone else these particular questions,” I answered honestly. Then I leaned forward and burned my eyes into his. “You know more about computers than anyone I know. Help me understand what happened.”

  He squirmed in his chair.

  “Could it have been an accident?” I demanded.

  This time he raised both hands in surrender. Then he spoke quickly, probably to get it over with. “I wish I could say for sure it was an accident. If the robot plugged itself in, it might have gotten an electrical glitch that caused it to behave erratically. Or maybe Sarah programmed the robot to come up to the edge of the tub, and miscalculated so that it went a little too far. But then it should’ve stopped anyway, unless it was programmed to override the sensors.” He frowned before continuing.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” he said. His voice was high with tension now. “I doubt if it was an accident. And if it wasn’t, you ought to be careful.”

  “If it was murder, and murder by someone close to Sarah— maybe someone close to me—I want to know about it,” I said steadily, ignoring my racing pulse. “I don’t want to wonder for the rest of my life if someone I know is a murderer.”