Adjusted to Death

by Jaqueline Girdner

  “Neil Udel tells me you’ve got yourself tangled up in another murder,” he said.

  “I didn’t get myself tangled up. I didn’t even know the guy,” I objected. My voice sounded shrill, even to my own ears.

  “The Mill Valley police have called us in to help. Seeing as we’re old buddies from the last case you ‘didn’t’ get yourself tangled up in, I thought I’d stop by.” He glanced over my shoulder and his eyes widened. “Hayburners,” he said in a hungry whisper.

  “Like to play a few games?” I asked, feeling the balance of power shift to myself as owner of the alluring Hayburners. I could see the struggle in his face. He bobbed his head from side to side. His lips tightened and relaxed. Finally, he followed me into the room.

  “Only in the line of duty,” he said. “Set her up for double play, and I’ll ask you a few questions while I beat your—” I could have finished his sentence, but he wouldn’t. His face flushed.

  “Yes?” I said inquiringly. Then, “We’ll see about that.” I hit the reset button twice.

  “Ladies first,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, no. Cops first,” I replied demurely. We both knew full well that the second player had an advantage.

  Hayburners was an unusual machine. It had no thumper bumpers. Instead, there were side bumpers and high-point side lanes, jellyfish rollovers in the center, and upright targets on the sides and back of the green, orange, yellow, and red playfield. Multicolored metal horses raced to a finish line in the pinkly illuminated backboard when the ball hit various targets. As each horse came in, the corresponding jellyfish bumper and backboard target increased in value from ten to a hundred points. The side lanes randomly alternated from fifty to five hundred points. Hayburners also sported a double set of flippers, top and bottom, and a moving ball launcher.

  Feiffer launched his first ball. It was a good pitch. It darted up the upper side lane and won him fifty points. It would have been five hundred if the lane had been lit. The ball drifted over the top and back down the playfield, gaining speed. It was almost to his right flipper when I spoke.

  “So who do the Mill Valley police think did it?” I asked. His fingers hesitated a fraction too long on the flipper button. The ball skated on the flipper and then slid off its tip and down the drain hole. But he didn’t answer my question.

  “Your turn,” he said sweetly, between clenched teeth.

  I stepped up to the machine and fondled the flippers. Then I poised my hand over the launch button, ready to shoot.

  “They don’t suspect anyone in particular,” he said as my hand came down. “But I can tell you whose two sets of prints are on the murder weapon.”

  My shot went wild. It careened off the side bumper and came hurtling toward my left flipper.

  “Detective Udel says to be down at the police station for a little get-together at three o’clock,” he continued.

  Three o’clock? I thought it was near to three then, but I couldn’t look at my watch. I was too busy trying to control the ball. I desperately bobbled it on my flipper while completing my anxiety attack. When the ball rolled toward the inside joint of the flipper I released the button slowly, edging the ball to the flipper’s center. Then I slammed it. The ball sailed up the playfield toward the back targets, bouncing over jellyfish bumpers on the way. The game was in play again. Bells began to ring and the score reels spun.

  “Nice save,” Feiffer said grudgingly. “What did you think of Scott Younger?”

  “I didn’t know the man personally,” I replied, slapping a flipper. I was in stride now. The ball danced up the playfield. One of the horses reached the finish line. Now there were two one-hundred point targets lit.

  “How about before?” he asked. The ball went down the lighted side lane. Five hundred points.

  “Before what?” I passed the ball from the right to left flipper with a surgeon’s precision, and shot.

  “Didn’t you know him before you met him at your chiropractor’s?” he asked slyly.

  “Nope.” The ball hit one of the lighted targets and rolled back down the playfield over two jellyfish bumpers, bringing in another horse. Then it began its lazy descent, heading for the tip of my left flipper. It would be a difficult shot.

  Feiffer moved in closer to me. I could feel his body heat and smell his scent, made up of spicy aftershave and a more primal strong, clean sweat. An unexpected surge of carnal desire temporarily immobilized my body. The ball kissed the tip of my rigid flipper before plummeting down the center drain.

  “Tough luck,” he said, with a sincere smile this time. “But you’ve racked up a good score for your first ball.”

  He stepped up to the machine. I peppered him with questions as he played. Had Younger still been a drug dealer? Not anymore, as far as they knew. Not that Younger was ever convicted. A perfect side lane shot. Who inherited? None of my business. Another horse in. Who was Wayne Caruso? Chauffeur, cook, nanny, bodyguard, take your pick. Hundred-point bells were ringing as the ball skittered over the jellyfish bumpers. But even Feiffer couldn’t stop the ball as it dived down a side drain.

  Four more turns and a few hundred questions later, I had won. But barely. My score was 6441, to his 6296.

  “Best two out of three?” he proposed. I looked at my watch. Two o’clock. I set up another game. He won that one. I won the next.

  I expected him to suggest the best three out of five, but he didn’t.

  “Do you ever stop and wonder why you always end up involved in these things?” he asked instead.

  “Yes,” I answered. “But I haven’t figured it out yet. Isn’t that a pretty metaphysical question for a County Sheriff?”

  “Ah, but I am a Marin County Sheriff, ma’am. With the emphasis on Marin. It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Jasper.”

  He turned and marched his gorgeous body out my door.

  I turned off Hayburners and called Wayne Caruso back. Maggie had asked him to speak to me about Scott. He was willing to tell me all he knew, at my convenience. His voice was low and unassuming.

  “Don’t really have to look at my stories,” he added, his voice sinking and barely audible. “Pretty sure Maggie made that up, your being interested.” In my mind I saw his homely face burdened by dejection.

  “No, I am interested,” I heard myself say. “Not that I know anything about writing.”

  “That’ll make two of us, then,” he said with a soft laugh. “We can share the experience.”

  I chuckled, pleased by his unexpected lightness. I told him to come by the house at six o’clock, and rushed out the door to my appointment with Detective Sergeant Udel.

  Midway to the Mill Valley Police Department I slowed down. I didn’t want to get a speeding ticket on the way to my murder interrogation. I arrived at nine minutes after three. I wondered whether my tardiness would be construed as evidence of guilt, or possibly as an innocent’s nonchalance.

  Pushing a glass door open, I entered a large waiting room furnished simply with two brown-and-white plaid couches. I told the uniformed officer at the desk that I was here to see Sergeant Udel. He smiled and asked me to take a seat. Sitting comfortably on one of the couches, I took a moment to enjoy the November sunlight that filtered warmly through the glass door, and remembered the words of Oscar Wilde’s Ballad of Reading Gaol, “that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky.”

  My reverie was interrupted by the sound of a door being buzzed open. Renee came briskly through the door with a smug smile on her face. She didn’t even glance at me as she sailed past.

  Inspector Parker escorted me into an interrogation room where Sergeant Udel sat at a bare table. This room was not warm and sunny. Nor was Sergeant Udel. His pale, distressed face looked even thinner than it had the day before. And his eyes were round and staring. Was this Renee’s work? He chewed viciously on a pen and gestured for me to sit down.

  I was busy feeling sorry for him, when he began to question me. Then I started feeling sorry for myself. He asked me all the
same questions he had asked the previous afternoon, prodding me here and battering me there, helter-skelter. Inspector Parker took notes, his red face set impassively. Then Udel shifted to new questions. What did I know about Renee, Maggie, and Eileen? He tapped his fingers on the table and chewed his pen. And how about Devi, Valerie, and Ted? Tap, tap. Chew, chew.

  “Do you take drugs, Ms. Jasper?” Udel asked in another rapid shift, his eyes searing into me.

  “No! Well, I used to take tryptophan before it was recalled, but it’s an amino acid, not a drug really.”

  “Acid, like LSD?” he demanded eagerly. Even Parker’s eyes opened up.

  “No, amino acid, like in protein. You used to be able to get it in a health food store,” I answered desperately. “Over the counter.”

  “And what other drugs do you take?” he asked, chewing on his pen once more.

  I decided not to tell him about my herbal sleeping pills. “Sometimes aspirin,” I replied. “Though I try not to very often. No coffee or sugar or alcohol. Or meat or dairy products for that matter. I’m a very strict vegetarian—”

  “What about Dr. Lambrecht?” he interrupted.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes. You must know what kind of drugs she uses.”

  “Coffee,” I revealed triumphantly. “I keep telling her it’s poison, but she won’t listen. And she puts sugar and cream in it, too. Triple poison—”

  “I’m not interested in coffee, Ms. Jasper. Coffee is not a drug.”

  Damn me if I couldn’t resist correcting him, even though I could see the styrofoam cups on the table, filled with the dregs of the insidious drug in question.

  “But it is a drug. Do you know what it does to your body? Did you know that people go through withdrawal symptoms when they stop drinking coffee?”

  “Illegal drugs!” he shouted. Then there was a cracking sound as he bit through his pen.

  I stared as a trickle of blue ink spilled over his lower lip. He looked like an improperly painted vampire. He burst out of his chair, gagging and spitting. Then he stormed through the door, shouting at Inspector Parker to take over, and slamming it behind him.

  Inspector Parker had a different approach. He plodded through a list of illegal drugs, one by one (marijuana, cocaine…) and asked if I was taking any of them. Then he asked if I had taken any of those drugs in the past. I lied and said I hadn’t. I didn’t feel too guilty about the lie. I wasn’t up for a Supreme Court nomination or anything. Then he asked the same questions about each of the other suspects. I honestly told him that I knew absolutely nothing about their illegal drug habits, if they had any at all.

  “Anything else you can tell us?” he asked finally.

  “No,” I said, with some reservation. But I wasn’t about to get Ann Rivera involved with the police.

  “Then you’re free to go. Call us if you think of something new. I’ll buzz you out.”

  Midway through the door he stopped and turned to me.

  “You hafta excuse the sergeant,” he whispered. “He’s under a lot of stress. Never handled a murder before.”

  I was back into the large sunlit room once more, sucking in the sweet air of freedom. Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply and straightened my posture. A series of clenched muscles let go. My jaw, neck, shoulders and stomach relaxed. Then I opened my eyes and headed for the door to the outside.

  Valerie Davis was sitting, rigid as ever, on the far end of the couch nearest the door. There were circles under her eyes and her skin still had an unhealthy greyish cast.

  I nodded hello and smiled. I wanted to say something comforting, but I couldn’t think of the appropriate words. A simple “good luck” seemed inadequate, especially if she was a murderer.

  I pushed out through the glass door. Once in the womb of my aged brown Toyota, I sat gratefully savoring my escape. But unease swept over me as I considered Inspector Parker’s parting words. I turned the key in the ignition. Sergeant Udel had never handled a murder case before, much less solved one. Could he solve this one?

  Pulling out of the lot, I assured myself that I had a friend in Sergeant Feiffer, fingerprints or no fingerprints. Or did I? Maybe I should have let him win the last game of pinball. And I was probably Detective Sergeant Udel’s favorite for the electric chair right now. Would he be so unfair as to let the absurd results of my coffee fanaticism influence his view of my criminal guilt or innocence? Only if he was human, I answered myself unhappily. Damn my self-righteousness!

  I turned onto East Blithedale and told myself to quit whining and to think positively. Of course the police weren’t telling me all they knew. They probably already had a good idea who had killed Scott Younger. They were just gathering evidence to prepare their case.

  By the time I turned onto my street, I had restored my own confidence in the Mill Valley Police Department.

  When I pulled into my driveway there was already a car there. Felix Byrne, reporter for the Marin Mind, recently appointed western correspondent for the Philadelphia Globe, and my best friend Barbara’s current sweetheart, was sitting comfortably on my front porch in a peeling white lawn chair. As I walked up the stairs he stood and waved. He wore a snug-fitting pair of jeans and a turquoise sweater over his lean, small-boned body.

  “Howdy, hi,” he said. “I hear you got yourself mixed up in another one.” His shaggy mustache moved as he spoke, the only indication that there was actually a mouth underneath it. He winked one large brown eye at me.

  “You’re not going to get your story from me,” I warned him. “This time, the police are taking care of the murder investigation.”

  He emphatically shook his head no. “I’ve talked to my source at the police department. They don’t have a clue.”

  -Six-

  “They have diddly for physical evidence,” Felix continued as I opened the door. “Anyone could have struck the blow. No particular strength necessary. And with Scott Younger lying down the way he was, they can’t even tell the height of the person who bashed him. All they’ve really got are—”

  “My fingerprints on the weapon?” I finished for him. He turned his eyes away from mine. I felt sick.

  I dropped my purse on top of Hayburners and plunged into the depths of my naugahyde chair.

  “Want some tea?” Felix asked. He was always good for tea and sympathy, especially when he sniffed a good story.

  I nodded and he went into the kitchen. He knew where to find the kettle.

  Felix had sought me out as a source when researching another murder, last year. His inside story of that murder had resulted in his assignment as Western correspondent for the Philadelphia Globe. His friendship with me had also led to his romance with Barbara.

  Barbara, my best friend. Barbara, who was lying somewhere in the sun on the coast of Maui during the time of my need. My thoughts traveled back across the Pacific to my estranged husband. And then to the disappearing C.C. Abandoned by all, I felt a bad case of the suspected-of-murder, no-one-loves-me blues coming on.

  “Tea will be served in a moment, madam,” said Felix with a bow as he returned from the kitchen. He pulled up a rolling office chair and sat down across from me.

  “Felix, do you think there’s something about me that brings these things on?” I asked softly.

  “No, you are not creating murder out of your bad vibes! Get that crap out of your mind.” I was surprised by his vehemence. Did the man protest too much?

  “Let’s put it this way. How many murders have there been in Marin recently?”

  “Two,” he answered.

  “And how many have I been involved in?” I stuck two fingers up in the air to coach him. He remained silent. “And,” I added, “this time I found the body.”

  “That must have been a real bummer. Tell me about it,” he said, a reporter’s gleam in his eye.

  The teakettle whistled. We both jumped in our chairs.

  “What’s with the police, anyway?” I asked, when he had returned with a cup of mint tea. “Are
they incompetent or what?”

  “No, they’re not incompetent. How are they supposed to know who did it? No witnesses. No condemning physical evidence. No confession.” He threw up his hands. “One of the cops told me about the last murder she could remember in Mill Valley. A wife shot her hubby in the Safeway parking lot. Six people saw it happen. There was a smoking gun in her hand, and she immediately confessed to the cop who arrested her. This one isn’t like that.”

  “So what are they doing to solve it?” I asked, blowing on my tea and sipping cautiously. I had burned my tongue, among other things, a little too often lately.

  “Digging. Looking for leads. Wayne Caruso inherits, so he looks pretty good.”

  “That guy couldn’t have done it. You’d know that if you met him. He’s too… too gentle,” I said.

  “He’s a friggin’ black belt in karate,” said Felix.

  “So? Younger wasn’t killed by karate, for God’s sake. He was killed with a metal bar!” I could feel my face getting hot.

  “Okay, okay,” said Felix, raising a hand in front of his face as if to shield himself from my wrath. “They’re interested in Valerie Davis too. She’s got a record.”

  “What did she do?” I asked, remembering her pitifully frightened face.

  “I couldn’t find out.”

  “I’m surprised there was something you couldn’t find out,” I said snidely. “Your friendly female officer wouldn’t divulge all the police secrets?” Felix blushed.

  “Finish your tea,” he said. “I’ll come back when you’re in a better mood.”

  I slurped up the remaining few drops. He took the cup from my hand. “I’ll stay if you need me,” he offered in a softer tone.

  I shook my head. I had work to do. He flung a “take care” over his shoulder on the way out the door. The score was three men down so far that day. And one more to go. I hoped my social skills improved by the time Wayne Caruso arrived.