A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (10 page)

- Eleven -

I had Aunt Dorothy on the phone for my mother in less than a minute. My aunt didn’t seem too upset to be torn away from Felix Byrne’s company. Or maybe it was the panic on my face that motivated her. Whatever it was, she excused herself gracefully and stood from the hanging chair with a movement that might have been practiced for years. Then she walked to the phone as I thought of a trio of warnings: Don’t tell Mom about my suggestion of black as the color scheme for the wedding; don’t tell Mom about my friends, especially Felix; and please, oh please, don’t tell Mom about the murder. But Aunt Dorothy had spoken into the receiver before I could give voice to even one of my warnings.

So I stood across the hall from my aunt and stared, hoping she would see the plea in my eyes to withhold information from my mother. If nothing else, though, I was positioned well for eavesdropping.

“Now, Grace,” I heard Aunt Dorothy protest.

My shoulders tightened.

“Everything is just fine,” my aunt said. My shoulders loosened a thread.

“Van?” she trilled. I opened my eyes wider. I hoped I looked like a cocker spaniel, but I probably looked more like some species of fish. “Oh, dear me, I don’t think I actually
know
anyone named Van, dear.”

Cool
, I saluted my aunt internally. And she was even telling the truth. She didn’t actually know Van Eisner.

“Oh, just fine,” she said in answer to some unknown question. “You’ve got to stop worrying, Grace. Wedding or not, Katie’s a good girl, a sensible girl.”

I blushed and lowered my eyes.

“He’s a very kind and good man,” she went on. “Just perfect for Katie.”

I turned and saw Wayne blushing now. So, he’d been eavesdropping, too.

“Oh, Katie’s chosen her colors,” I heard her say, and whipped my head back around. Dorothy grinned at me. “Yes, Grace. You just take care. There is absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Finally she said goodbye to my mother.

After Aunt Dorothy placed the telephone receiver back in its cradle, she crossed the hall and winked at me. I took two steps and threw my arms around her, hugging her way too tightly. But I couldn’t help the intensity of my embrace. She’d done it! She’d finessed my mother, something I’d never been able to do. She hadn’t mentioned murder, and even the wedding plans sounded like they were proceeding normally when she spoke. And, best of all, my aunt thought Wayne was kind and good. I gave her an extra squeeze, and then let her go for fear of crushing her fragile body. I didn’t want to send her home with broken ribs.

“You always were my favorite aunt,” I admitted impulsively.

Aunt Dorothy laughed, and I heard the sound of chimes.

Then I realized that the doorbell was ringing.

Wayne reached the door before I did and opened it.

Laura Summers crossed the threshold and gave Wayne a hug that made my embrace of Dorothy seem nonchalant. Felix’s eyes widened as Laura held on to Wayne like a life raft. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that Laura was a grieving widow.

When she finally let go, she looked into Wayne’s eyes and murmured, “Is there anything new?” Hers was a husky murmur, not a pathetic one like some people’s. Like mine.

I looked away, and my eyes caught Felix’s. His eyebrows were raised, and he was actually licking his lips. Of course! He probably hadn’t been able to interview Laura Summers yet. Damn.

“Laura,” I intervened just as Wayne said, “Don’t think so.”

Laura turned to me, her eyes focusing with apparent difficulty.

“This is my aunt, Dorothy Koffenburger,” I said with a nod at my aunt, who was no longer smiling. “And this is Felix Byrne, a reporter from the
Marin Mind.
”

Laura’s eyes focused and then narrowed in Felix’s direction.

“Good to meet you,” Laura said brusquely. And then she stepped forward to take Dorothy’s hand in hers. “And it’s so good to meet Kate’s aunt,” she added with more enthusiasm. “I’m Laura Summers.”

Dorothy shook Laura’s hand, a sympathetic half-smile on her face.

Felix jumped up from the couch.

“Hey, man, this is great!” he told Laura. “You are one whiz-bang assemblywoman! Been talking to my amigos, Kate and Wayne, about your tragedy. You got my friggin’ sympathy, man. Listen, you ever need to talk—”

“Quite,” Laura responded, cutting him off. She turned to me and gave me a short hug, apparently all hugged out after Wayne. “Kate, Wayne, I wanted to let you know that Steve’s funeral will be on Saturday…” Her voice faltered. She pulled out a hankie and held it to her face.

I turned away, embarrassed to be a witness to her grief. Felix stared at her like a deer spotting an uneaten rosebud.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dorothy said, her voice low and respectful. Laura looked up as if really noticing Dorothy for the first time. “I lost my husband not too long ago. I know there’s no way to compare experiences, no way to say the right words. But if you need anything at all, please ask.”

I sighed. How come I hadn’t been able to say those words so simply and eloquently?

“Thank you,” Laura replied formally. “I have my assistants to help me with the logistics, but your sympathy is much appreciated. There
is
no way to explain my feelings.” She paused, then went on. “Wayne, I’d ask you to speak at the funeral, but I know how you feel about the confidentiality of the group. Steve would have felt the same.”

Wayne looked stricken, his eyes suddenly wide under his uplifted eyebrows.

“I…I…it’s just…” he tried.

“Thanks, Laura,” I finished for him.

Standing up in front of a large group to express intimate feelings had to be Wayne’s idea of hell. He’d have probably gone mute.

“Did your husband have other special friends who might be able to help you?” Aunt Dorothy asked.

Laura shrugged. “His friends will be at the funeral, of course,” she answered, or didn’t answer. She straightened her shoulders. “Steve wasn’t a very outgoing man, socially. His writing was his life. It was more important than anything else.”

“Not more important than you, I’m sure,” Dorothy said softly.

Laura’s perfect skin reddened under her makeup.

“Of course not,” she murmured. “Of course not.”

“So, Assemblywoman Summers, what can you tell me about your husband’s death?” Felix put in gently—for him. “Was it an attempt that was directed at you, or do you think—”

“I’ve prepared an official statement for the press,” Laura cut him off. “You can get a copy from my assistant.”

“But what do
you
think?” Felix bulldozed on. “You must have your own suspicion of who the perp was—”

“Out!” Wayne ordered. His voice wasn’t that loud, but its intention was. Maybe he felt he couldn’t speak at Steve’s funeral, but this task he was up to.

“Hey, wait a friggin’ minute,” Felix objected. Fear of Wayne or not, Felix had his political prey in sight and wasn’t about to be distracted.

Wayne strode toward the reporter.

“Listen, Big Guy,” Felix whispered loud enough for the whole room to hear. “This is my chance to scoop it, man—”

Wayne took hold of Felix’s arm and steered him toward the door. Felix looked lopsided—the side that Wayne was holding was higher than the other one.

I listened as Felix begged all the way down the stairs. But it didn’t do him any good; he wasn’t getting a shot at Laura Summers in our house.

“Oh, dear,” Aunt Dorothy exclaimed when we heard Felix’s car leave, and Wayne came back inside.

“Thank you, Wayne,” Laura whispered.

Wayne was the color of his own beet pâté.

“And thank you, Kate and Dorothy,” Laura went on. “It’s good to have friends at a time like this.”

“We’ll be here, dear,” Aunt Dorothy replied.

There didn’t seem to be anything left to say. Laura left without ever having taken a seat, with a quick embrace and an air kiss for each of us.

As I heard Laura’s slow, dignified footsteps going down the stairs, I realized that Steve wasn’t the only one without a social life. Laura Summers didn’t seem to have any close friends, either. Assistants, yes; friends, no. She and Steve must have been there for each other, and now…

“Poor woman,” Aunt Dorothy sighed.

That said it all. I nodded along with Wayne.

“Let’s all sit back down and plan our next steps,” Dorothy suggested.

Somehow, I knew I shouldn’t let my octogenarian aunt in on a murder investigation. But when she said sit, we sat, back in the hanging chairs.

“We need more information,” Dorothy stated. “About Steve and about the group members and their sigos.”

Wayne and I nodded, mesmerized. Then we realized that she expected some kind of response.

“My ex-husband, Craig, might know more about Van Eisner,” I thought out loud. “They’re both in computer consulting. He might even know Jerry Urban. He knows a lot of people in start-up businesses.”

My aunt nodded sagely, wisely forgoing any comment or question concerning my ex-husband’s reason for being my ex-husband.

“Steve’s friends,” Wayne muttered. “Gotta find Steve’s friends. They might know what he was up to.”

“The funeral,” I reminded him.

“I want to meet everyone,” Aunt Dorothy announced. And I didn’t object. What could I say? This woman had finessed my mother, so I was no match for her.

We talked a while longer, and then my aunt brought up her hand to cover a ladylike yawn. Whoa. Jet lag. I hadn’t even thought about it.

Wayne and I drove Aunt Dorothy back to the hotel on the corner. She left us in the lobby, insisting that she could tuck herself in.

At the elevator, she turned and waved.

“Nightie-night, lovies!” she chirped, and then she stepped into the waiting maw of the elevator.

“Like your aunt,” Wayne commented after we got back in the Toyota.

“She thinks you’re good and kind,” I shot back, starting up the engine.

Wayne snorted, clearly embarrassed.

I put my arm around his shoulder before pulling out of my parking place. “I think you’re good and kind, too,” I whispered.

Now he was really embarrassed. But he was smiling. He smiled all the way home.

I opened the front door and let out a blissful sigh of relief. Wayne and I were finally alone.

“Let’s turn off the house,” he suggested.

“Except for me,” I purred back. “You can’t turn me off.”

But my hormones vaporized when we got to my office and I saw the letter face-down on my desk. I’d forgotten all about the letter.

“Wayne?” I said tentatively.

“What?” he growled back affectionately.

“Um, I got a weird letter in the mail.”

“What weird letter?” Wayne asked, his voice all business now.

I showed it to him. It hadn’t changed any. It still read, stop now, in outsized felt-tip pen letters. Its words were still twisted, the “p” backwards, and a possible “e” on the end of now. And it still raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“Dyslexic?” Wayne hazarded.

“That’s what I thought,” I told him, excited now. “But we don’t know anyone dyslexic.”

“Maybe the handwriting is disguised this way.”

“Isaac would know how to write a fake dyslexic letter,” I told him.

“And Helen,” he reminded me.

“But if Isaac or Helen wrote it, wouldn’t it just point suspicion their way?”

“Yeah.” Wayne held the letter in his hands and scanned its two misshapen words as if he could discern something from their form.

“Wayne, have you seen the handwriting of everyone in the group?” I asked. “I mean, what if this is the best someone could write?”

Wayne’s eyebrows dropped over his eyes. “Haven’t really seen much in writing from the group, except from Steve. But Kate, everyone in the group, and all the people who were at the potluck, for that matter, have jobs. They must be able to write.”

I mulled this over for a while.

“How about Mike Russo?” I came up with finally. “He doesn’t have a job.”

“His school would have to notice if he was dyslexic,” Wayne argued. “And Carl would have talked to the group about it.”

“Okay, how about Ted and Janet Kimmochi?” I tried. “One could be dyslexic, and the other one could be covering.”

Wayne shook his head. “They took tests to become certified financial advisors—written tests.”

I ran the possible suspects through my head. Van Eisner? A dyslexic couldn’t write computer code, could he? Garrett Peterson? How many tests had he taken to become an M.D. and a psychiatrist? And Laura Summers? She’d taken the state bar exam. Good luck to her if she was dyslexic. Carl Russo was an accountant, Jerry Urban an engineer—

“Kate, you do realize, whatever its form, that this is a threat?” Wayne cut into my analysis.

“What?” I said.

“This note is a threat to us, or to one of us.”