Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  Then one of Teala’s assistants opened the lid of the coffin. Teala stepped up to Ellen and led her by the hand toward the now open coffin. Peter acted as a sheepdog and herded the rest of us in a line behind them. Ellen and Teala looked down at Sarah. Teala said, “I release you.” Ellen repeated her words.

  It was my turn. As I moved forward I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Wayne’s hand. I whispered a thank you and looked down at Sarah. Her skin had an orangish cast which I attributed to the makeup, although it might have been the lighting or even the aura of all those years of orange. The bones of her face were more prominent than ever. She was sunk into the coffin in her favorite orange and purple jumpsuit. Nestled in her hands was one of Nick’s sculptures, the little ivory one. I stared down and finally knew that she was really dead. As I felt my tears sneaking out and down my cheeks, I remembered what the ritual was for. I said, “I release you” and moved on and back to my seat. Soon we were all chanting words of love, thanks and release for the last time.

  Outside, the air felt crisp as those of us who were going to the cemetery climbed into the cars Peter had assigned us. I was in Craig’s car. Barbara and Felix sat up front with him. I sat in the back between Ellen and Wayne. I speculated upon the malicious intent that might be behind Peter’s assignment of cars as we slowly drove in a procession to the cemetery.

  “Hey, are you guys all dinks?” Ellen asked, her raucous voice breaking into the somber mood.

  “What’s a dink?” asked Craig.

  “Double Income, No Kids,” she replied.

  “We’re all single,” I said pointedly.

  “But at least you’re yuppies, right?” she steamrollered on. “I mean, this is California. I read in Newsweek where you guys had a government task force to promote self-esteem!”

  “Did we?” chuckled Barbara. “Far out. You know more about California than I do. Where are you from?”

  “New Jersey”

  “What exit?” wisecracked Craig. Ellen broke into a roar of laughter. I leaned against Wayne without looking at him. But I could feel his body heat, even smell it. I put my hand on his knee, then felt his hand cover mine.

  “Where’d you dig up old Teala and the Trancenjoys?” Felix asked Ellen. A bad choice of words when driving to a cemetery, I thought. But no one else seemed to notice.

  “I looked through Sarah’s address book,” Ellen explained. “It was the only entry resembling a religious organization, right? Anyway, Nick said she went there a few times and liked them, so I called them up.”

  “Why isn’t Nick here?” I asked.

  “He couldn’t handle it,” Ellen said, her voice a little softer. “Cute kid, but he doesn’t go out much.”

  “How about Vivian and Jerry?” I asked. “I hope they were invited.”

  “Oh, they were,” Ellen boomed. “Vivian’s Information Central, right, the mouthy cleaning lady? She said the ‘hired help’ don’t go to funerals. And Jerry the gardener, right? He said he was working.”

  “How long are you going to be out here, Ellen?” Barbara asked.

  “Oh, a coupla weeks,” she replied. “I’m calling this a paid vacation.” Was she talking about her inheritance?

  “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?” I offered. I had interrogation in mind.

  “What’ll you feed me, tofu burgers?” she rasped. She laughed loudly for a while at her own wit. “No offense. Sure, I’ll come over,” she said finally.

  We pulled slowly into the cemetery and parked. Once the rest of the procession had arrived, Peter led us to the gravesite, which was set off from the rest of the neatly trimmed graves by a brightly striped canopy of orange and white. The attendants had already lowered the coffin into the grave. A neat pile of dirt was on a tarpaulin by its side. We still had most of the crowd from the funeral chapel, with the exception of Teala and her assistants, who had mysteriously vanished. Apparently, they were only hired to play the Serenity Room and their contract did not extend to the graveyard. We all stood around expectantly, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Ellen stepped forward.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, laughter is healing, so laugh we must,” she proclaimed. Then she began telling a joke about a donkey as she threw some dirt onto the coffin.

  The gathering around the grave was temporarily immobilized.

  Mouths gaped as we all stared at Ellen. She finished that joke and began another.

  “What do you get when you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole?” she asked. There were no takers.

  “Hot cross bunnies,” she answered herself. There were a few scattered snickers.

  I dropped my now wilted and crushed chrysanthemums onto the coffin as she asked, “What do you call a row of rabbits walking backwards?” A few more people stepped forward to drop dirt or flowers on the coffin.

  “A receding hareline!” Some people were laughing aloud now. The attendants were smirking. But Peter was not amused.

  “The time has come to take leave of Sarah,” he announced, his voice bursting with reproach.

  “May the divine spirit continue to guide her,” Tony offered more gently.

  “Amen,” I said. Not that I meant to use the word in its religious sense. I just wanted to end the event. A few more “amens” were spoken and Peter shepherded everyone back to the cars.

  “Hey, Sarah, remember where you’re parked,” Ellen shouted as we left.

  I turned to see Wayne’s reaction. But he had disappeared.

  When we got back to the mortuary I snagged Linda and invited her to the seance. Her eyebrow lifted infinitesimally. For her, I guessed that this was the equivalent of a gasp. I wondered what it might mean. She recovered herself quickly and agreed to come.

  Felix stood close by, drooling for an invitation. But Barbara headed him off easily, kissing him every time he opened his mouth until it was finally time to leave.

  The minute Barbara and I were alone in her Volkswagen, I asked her what she thought.

  “I think Wayne is hurting,” she replied seriously.

  “Not Wayne, goddammit!” I cried impatiently. “Who’s the murderer? Did you get anything?”

  “Not really,” she said, swerving the car a little as she pondered. “I got all sorts of mixtures of anger, sorrow, fear. Nothing that I could exactly say was murderous energy. But a person can consciously or unconsciously shield themselves…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Who was angry?” I asked hopefully.

  “Peter was the angriest,” she said. “But you can tell that by looking at him. Anyway, his anger is really more impatience than anything else.”

  Suddenly I felt tired. I had wanted something conclusive, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get it. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

  “Myra is some confused woman,” Barbara went on. “And Linda is as blank as she looks.”

  I sat up straight. “Do you think she’s shielding on purpose?” I asked.

  Barbara shrugged her shoulders. The car sidled gently into the next lane, then floated back.

  “I guess I don’t know how to calibrate a murderer,” she admitted. “Sorry, kiddo.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I said. I kept my voice cheerful. I didn’t want Barbara to know how disappointed I was. “Anyway, there’s still the seance.”

  We rode along in uncharacteristic silence. Poor Barbara. I knew she felt guilty for having failed me.

  “I do miss Wayne,” I offered softly.

  “I know,” she said. Then she turned the full force of her smile on me as she swerved in front of a gasoline truck.

  - Fifteen -

  Barbara regained her proper lane amid blaring horns and screaming brakes.

  “Isn’t one funeral enough?” I demanded.

  “You know I never hit anyone,” she replied calmly. And then, without any transition, she asked, “Why don’t you marry Wayne?”

  I groaned.

  “Well?” she prodded.

  “You’re the psychi
c,” I snapped. “You tell me.”

  “I just might,” she said, grinning my way. The car began sidling up to the next lane.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I bargained quickly. “If you stay in your lane all the way home, I’ll explain why I don’t want to get married.”

  “Done,” she agreed and looked straight ahead.

  I took a breath and began. “Here’s the worst-case scenario,” I told her. “I marry Wayne. I become dependent on him. I get used to having money. I don’t put in my sixty hours a week on Jest Gifts. Jest Gifts withers from neglect. And then the marriage goes bad—”

  “But Kate,” Barbara protested. The car moved crabwise toward oncoming traffic as she turned to me. “You don’t have to be so negative.”

  “Eyes on the road!” I ordered. “I’m explaining.”

  She looked ahead obediently and brought the Volkswagen back to center.

  “I’ve been married,” I reminded her. “To a perfectly good human being. And it didn’t work out.”

  “That was Craig,” she objected. “Wayne is different.”

  “I was just as in love with Craig then as I am with Wayne now,” I shot back. That wasn’t quite true. There was a qualitative difference between the ways I cared for the two men. But I didn’t want to get into it.

  “I was headed for law school when I met Craig,” I went on, remembering. “I fell for him and forgot all about my career. Craig seemed more important. Craig and his business. I put over a decade of my life into his business!” I was surprised by the anger in my own voice. It was like hearing someone else speak. Was I that angry?

  “So marry Wayne and don’t depend on him financially,” Barbara suggested breezily.

  “It’s not that simple,” I argued.

  “Of course it’s not,” Barbara said. “I’ll tell you what really scares you. You cared for Craig and he left you. Now you’re afraid of any emotional commitment—”

  “That’s enough,” I interrupted. I was tired of the subject.

  Barbara turned to me with a searching look. The car wandered into the left lane.

  “All right, all right!” I shouted. “I’ll think about it.”

  Barbara didn’t press me. She began talking about Felix instead. Strangely enough, she adored the man. I allowed the happiness in her voice to flow over me and warm me as we oscillated home. She walked me to the door and gave me a quick hug. Then she veered off into the afternoon sun.

  The light wasn’t blinking on my answering machine when I walked into my house. I took a deep breath in relief, then dialed Jerry’s phone number. But all I got was his answering machine again. I hung up and sat down to the stack of paperwork on my desk. Sarah’s smiling face popped into my mind.

  “Do you want me to keep trying?” I whispered aloud.

  The face in my mind nodded and disappeared. Damn. Now I was speaking to the dead. I rubbed the sudden crop of goose flesh on my arms vigorously and reminded myself that Sarah was only in my mind, subject to my control. But when I tried to get her face back, the image wouldn’t come. I grabbed a bunch of invoices angrily. I had been through enough spookiness for the day, thank you. I blocked out the world and wrote checks.

  C.C. came wandering in a few hours later. She jumped up on my desk and batted my pencil. It slid across my neat ledger columns leaving a thin graphite trail. She let out a heartbreaking cry of starvation before I had a chance to yell at her. It was dinnertime.

  I remembered my invitation to Ellen Quinn as I was scooping out KalKan.

  I pawed through my cupboards frantically, looking for the ingredients of a meal. I pulled out a couple of cans of chili and a sack of cornmeal. There were some onions, garlic, peppers and a few vegetables in my refrigerator. I added them to the pile. It began to look like a tamale pie. I dug deeper and unearthed a package of tortillas and some salad greens. Fifteen minutes later, the tamale pie was in the oven.

  The doorbell rang. I put the teakettle on the stove and sprinted for the front door as C.C. slunk off unsociably. I pulled the door open. Ellen Quinn stood in front of me with an unusually serious expression on her face. She wore the same navy blue suit she had worn at the funeral, but now carried a briefcase. She stared at me intently.

  “Have you ever really considered your own death?” she asked quietly, unlocking her briefcase.

  My body went rigid with fear. Then I remembered my tai chi training. I centered myself and lifted a defensive hand up in front of my chest. I was ready. But how helpful was my hand going to be if she had a gun in that briefcase? Now she was shouting at me. Slowly, I tuned into her words.

  “Insurance, insurance!” she was screaming, her face thrust into mine. “I’m selling insurance, not trying to murder you!”

  I stared at her until my mind finally processed the meaning of her words. Her face broke into the trademark Quinn Howdy Doody grin. She leaned back and laughed lustily. I managed a weak smile. At least she wasn’t angry. My body wasn’t rigid anymore. It was weak and trembling.

  “God, I don’t believe it,” Ellen guffawed. “You thought I was going to kill you, right? You shoulda seen your face!”

  “Shall I frisk you before I let you in?” I joked feebly.

  “It’ll be a long wait if you take the time to frisk me,” she answered in a Mae West drawl. She wiggled her extensive bottom. “I’m a mighty big woman.”

  “Come on in, then,” I invited, remembering my role as hostess. “Would you like some herbal tea?”

  “Sure, what the hell,” she said, stepping into the hall. “I’m game.”

  “What kind of game are you, venison?” I sallied as I led the way into the living room. It was one of Craig’s old lines.

  She laughed raucously as she followed me.

  “You’re okay,” she pronounced approvingly. “Better than your friend Peter. Sometimes I think that Sarah was the only one of you guys who had a sense of humor.” She lowered herself into one of the swinging chairs without missing a beat. “Though I’m never quite sure when people are joking out here. On the way over I saw this car with a bumper sticker that said ‘Inner Peace Now’ like it was a demand.”

  “There’s nothing worse than a militant introspective,” I deadpanned as I sat down across from her. I studied her face. God, she looked like Sarah.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” she boomed. She pushed off with her feet, setting the chair to swinging. “Take that Teala broad of the Trancenjoys. Man, I wouldn’t want to argue with her. Is she intense!”

  “What’s the foundation about, anyway?” I asked. I had wondered all afternoon.

  “Oh God, they’re about everything,” Ellen groaned. She shook her head, then laughed. “Anything you do can be turned into a spiritual experience, according to them. For thirty-five an hour one of the devotees will introduce you to shopping as a transformational experience! I kid you not. Or if you don’t wanna take novocaine when you go to the dentist, they’ll hypnotize you so you won’t need it. I told them they should call it TranscenDental Meditation but no one got the joke.” She shook her head again, then pinched her brows together in a look of confusion. “They told me I was very fifth and second chakra, whatever that means.”

  “I think the fifth is at the throat,” I said slowly, trying to remember the order like a musical scale. “It means you’re a good communicator.”

  “How about the second?” she demanded.

  “Sex,” I said brusquely, hoping I didn’t have to explain its location.

  “Hey, let’s hear it for the second chakra!” she cheered. She sounded like Sarah, too, I realized with a pang.

  Ellen tilted her head wistfully as the chair swung back and forth. She spoke more softly. “I haven’t had any of that for a while. I want a nice sweet honey who will be there when I want him and won’t pull any bullshit on me when I travel around. Someone who’ll keep the house clean, have dinner waiting and keep the bed warm.” She winked heavily. “Not necessarily in that order, either.”

  “You want a
housewife who’s male,” I concluded.

  “That’s right, honey,” she agreed, nodding her head emphatically. “But I don’t think they exist.”

  The teakettle screamed from the kitchen.

  “I don’t know about the rest of it, but I’ll be glad to cook you dinner,” I said. I stood up. “Come on in the kitchen. I still need to do the salad and steam the tortillas. We’ll have some tea while I cook.”

  She followed me to the kitchen and started up with the jokes. As I turned the teakettle off, she asked me if a dog wore more clothes in the summer or winter.

  “Winter,” I guessed. I poured boiling water over Red Zinger tea bags. It seemed to be the right brand for Ellen.

  “No, summer,” she shot back triumphantly. “In the winter he wears a coat, but in the summer he wears a coat and pants.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, grimacing. I looked closely at her. “Did you ever think of becoming a comedian?” I asked.

  She took a seat at the kitchen table. “I didn’t only think of it, I was one for a while,” she told me. “I never made it big-time, though.” She sighed, then brightened. “I gotta tell you the one about the minister,” she began. “You’ll love it—”

  “So why did you end up in insurance?” I asked quickly, averting her story. I put the tortillas in the steamer.

  “When you’re selling life insurance you gotta have a sense of humor,” she explained. She took a sip of tea. “Everyone either makes fun of you, or gets mad at you, ‘cause life insurance makes them so nervous about death. So you laugh or drink or do drugs.” She grinned, reminding me of Sarah again. “I drink a little and laugh a lot. I’d probably do drugs too, if someone offered me some.”