Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (14 page)

“I don’t know,” I answered. But my brain was rapidly cataloguing the people she’d driven crazy with her ideas. Peter, Vivian, Myra… me. I shook my head. “No, I don’t buy it,” I told him. “I can see someone being driven to strangle Sarah in a momentary fit of rage, but to carefully plan a murder like this? It doesn’t make sense, Felix. There has to be another motive.”

“Money?” he asked.

I hesitated. Should I tell Felix everything I knew?

“Come on, Kate,” he prodded.

What the hell. “The sister and the boyfriend inherit,” I told him. “Have you met Nick Taos yet?”

“No. I’ve knocked on his door, but he doesn’t answer. His friggin’ yard’s a disaster area.” Felix directed a big smile at me. “I hear he’s a real weirdo,” he offered enticingly.

“You can say that again—” I began, but stopped myself. The subject of Nick’s sculptures wasn’t for discussion in mixed company. Let Barbara tell him. Felix opened his mouth, but I cut him off before he got a word of protest out.

“Then there’s this computer program that Sarah was working on,” I said softly. “It’d be worth stealing if it was for real.”

That got his attention. “What program?” he demanded.

“Oh, something to do with the stock market. Craig says it’s probably worthless.”

“Seeing old Craig again?” Felix asked snidely.

Why did I put up with Felix? Then I remembered. He was a
source
of information, too. Knowing Felix, he’d probably interviewed every female member of the Marin County Sheriff’s Department by now.

“So what have you gotten from the police?” I asked.

“Doo-doo,” he said with a frown. “They’re locked up tighter than George Bush’s jockstrap.”

“George Bush’s… ?” I began. No, I didn’t want to know what Felix meant by that. “Come on, Felix,” I said. “They must have told you something.”

“Zilch!” he exploded. “It’s like they’ve all been ordered to avoid me.” His eyes went to the ceiling thoughtfully. “Maybe they really have been told to avoid me.” He brought his eyes back down. “But something’s going on, Kate. Like maybe they know who did it, but they don’t have doodly-squat to prove it.” He shook his head in disgust. “Everyone’s doing their jobs, but no one will talk to me. It’s like a friggin’ monastery there.”

I could imagine it. A Sheriff’s Department filled with Linda Zatara clones, moving but not speaking. “Linda Zatara—” I began.

“Linda Zatara?” demanded Felix, suddenly sitting up straight. “What’s Linda Zatara got to do with this?”

“She was in our study group,” I said. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t ‘tell me that,’ “ he said acidly. “You just said Linda.” His eyes narrowed.

“What about Linda?” I demanded. Was she a notorious murderer? What was he so excited about?

Felix changed the subject. “How’s Wayne doing?” he asked innocently.

“What about Linda Zatara?” I changed the subject back.

He looked at his watch. “It’s been half an hour to the friggin’ minute,” he said. He got up from the table. “Nice talking to you. Gotta go.”

I jumped out of my chair and stood in front of him. “Felix,” I whispered in a tone of menace.

He wasn’t impressed. He stepped around me and headed for the door. I raced after him and blocked him at the threshold.

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Will you share
everything
you know?” he asked.

I hesitated.

He pushed past me onto the porch.

“All right, everything!” I shouted. “Now tell me about Linda.”

“Dinner tonight,” he offered, turning back to look at me.

“Sure—” I began. Then I remembered Peter. “I’ve got a date,” I said. “How about tomorrow?”

“You’re on. Dinner tomorrow night. You tell me everything and I tell you about Linda Zatara.” He paused. “No deal if you hold back,” he threatened in a low whisper.
“Capeesh?”

I nodded.

“Bring your credit card!” he shouted happily and clattered down the front stairs.

I stood in the doorway fuming. Then I remembered. Felix had his sources. But I had mine. I ran to the telephone to call Vivian. Maybe she knew Linda’s secret. She knew everyone else’s.

I didn’t waste any time when Vivian picked up the phone. “What do you know about Linda Zatara?” I demanded.

“Who?” she asked.

“Sarah’s friend,” I told her. “Brown skin. Grey hair. Grey eyes.”

“Oh, her,” Vivian mumbled. I could barely hear her voice. “Yeah, she visited Sarah once when I was cleaning.”

“And?” I prodded eagerly.

“And nothing!” Vivian shouted. I could hear her clearly enough now. “Kate, cut it out! Stop nosing around. It’s dangerous!”

Then the phone went dead.

I was punching out Vivian’s phone number again when the doorbell rang.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I shouted impatiently. I banged the phone down and ran to the door.

I yanked it open and found myself looking into a pair of cold grey eyes. Linda Zatara’s cold grey eyes.

“Did Peter do drugs in college?” she asked.

- Ten -

“Peter do drugs?” I repeated stupidly, unable to pull my eyes away from Linda’s. What went on behind those cold grey eyes? Did Felix really know?

Abruptly, Linda let my eyes go and stepped past me. She walked quickly into the living room and parked herself on my couch. I came out of my trance and followed her. But I didn’t sit down. I stood in front of her, hoping that my relative height would give me an advantage.

“Well?” she pressed, staring up at me, unintimidated. There was no eagerness in her voice or her face, but I could feel it emanating from her.

“I’m sure Peter didn’t do any more drugs in college than anyone else,” I snapped defensively, realizing as the words left my mouth that I should have just said I didn’t know.

I turned away from her, away from her eyes. Peter and drugs? What kind of question was that? Peter! I looked at my watch. I was late for dinner with Peter! Unless I rushed.

“I’ve got a date,” I said, turning back to Linda.

She didn’t blink an eye. Maybe Donald Simpson was right. Maybe people who didn’t blink were aliens. You couldn’t disprove it by Linda, who continued to sit on the couch gazing at me with the impassivity of a Vulcan.

“You’ve got to go now,” I told her firmly. I was all out of politeness. And I didn’t want Linda in my home anymore.

She shrugged her shoulders in a pointed show of indifference and walked with exaggerated slowness back outside. I grabbed my purse and followed her, pausing only to lock up the house. She was opening her car door as I raced down the stairs.

“Linda!” I shouted.

She turned back to face me.

“Do you know how to program a computer?” I demanded.

She smiled enigmatically. “Why?” she shot back.

I didn’t answer. I gave her an enigmatic smile of my own. At least I hoped it looked that way. I’d never practiced enigmatic in the mirror. Then I got into my Toyota to watch her leave. Once she was gone, I raced the car out of the driveway, popping gravel.

I flew into the Safari Cafe parking lot at seven twenty-nine with a sigh of relief. Peter Stromberg was very picky about punctuality. I could see him through the glass front as I jogged up to the cafe entrance a precise minute later. He stood ramrod straight in his grey pinstripe suit, hands clasped behind his back, his foot tapping impatiently. The clatter of plates and aroma of expensive coffees greeted me when I opened the door. Peter merely nodded.

Once we were seated, I stared at Peter and wondered whether I was looking at the face of a murderer. And what about drugs in college? Peter squinted back at me intently. With his high cheekbones and sensual mouth, he was actually almost handsome. In a gaunt kind of way. I wondered why I had never noticed before.

“So, what’s up?” I asked, breaking the eye-to-eye standoff. Peter jumped a little in his seat and then impatiently motioned for menus, without answering.

I turned and saw the waitress bearing down on us. She was wearing the Safari uniform: hiking boots, khaki shorts and khaki top tied just under large breasts. Her slim legs and midriff were very brown. (The Safari Cafe also sported an in-house tanning salon.) Her body was perfect. Her face wasn’t as impressive, snub-nosed and small-eyed. But I guessed from the direction of Peter’s furtive glances that her face wasn’t at issue.

The decor was definitely safari. Our table was a mock elephant leg. Fake animal heads looked down at us through lush potted plants. At least I hoped the heads were fake.

The waitress handed us menus that proclaimed “natural safari cuisine” at the top. I looked at the first choice and blanched.

“Got any questions?” she demanded.

“Are the zebra burgers made from real zebra meat?” I asked weakly.

“Naah,” she assured me. That was a relief. “Just plain old hamburger.” She paused for a beat. “Natural of course, real natural.”

“Do you have any vegetarian dishes?” I inquired hopefully.

“Oh, yeah, vegetarian.” She took her pencil and scratched her ear lob thoughtfully. “Uh, let me ask,” she said finally and turned away from us.

“Hey, Johnny!” she shouted across the room. “What’s vegetarian?”

“Do you come here often?” I whispered to Peter.

“It’s conveniently located,” he snapped, his face reddening.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Native’s fare,” interrupted the waitress, turning back again. She pointed her pencil halfway down my menu. “Rice, beans and papayas, no meat.” I looked closer. “Native’s fare” was priced at ten dollars!
Don’t be cheap,
I scolded myself. The ingredients probably cost at least fifty cents, and I would have bet the waitresses got free tanning sessions. That had to put a dent in the Safari’s profits.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

“The zebra burger for me,” Peter requested.

I avoided his eyes. I didn’t care if he ate hamburger. I was a vegetarian upon doctor’s advice. I dreamt about roast beef at least once a month. I wasn’t about to proselytize. But I knew that no matter what I said, he was going to get defensive. Somehow, a vegetarian at the table has that effect.

“Kate, you really need to be more flexible in your eating,” he told me. “We eat macrobiotic at home, of course. But when I’m in a restaurant I can allow myself to enjoy meat.” His voice went a shade higher. “There’s just no reason for your obsessive self-denial.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. That stopped him cold.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, foiled.

“Listen, Peter,” I said, changing the subject quickly, “I’m going to arrange a seance with my friend Barbara. Probably Monday evening. To see if we can get in touch with Sarah. Would you come?”

“A seance?” His eyebrows went up. “Are you going crazy?”

“What is with you, Peter?” I shot back. “You practice all kinds of metaphysical hoo-ha. I don’t believe in half the cosmic connections that you do. But I’m willing to try a seance if there’s even an outside chance that we can communicate with Sarah. Why can’t you?”

“I am not Shirley MacLaine,” he protested. He jutted his head forward.”The mysticism I practice is more subtle, more pure.” He waved his skinny white hand in the air in an effort to explain himself. I could see he was weakening. “Connecting to the higher self for spiritual progress is not the same thing as playing psychic games,” he finished.

“But you’ll do it?”

He looked down at the table and groaned.

“For Sarah?” I pressed.

“Perhaps,” he said. “For Sarah.” Then he surprised me by smiling one of his rare smiles. “This is just the sort of thing she’d want us to be doing, making total fools of ourselves. I guess we’d better not disappoint her.” He leaned back in his chair again. “Is Tony going to come?” he asked.

“I’ll invite him when I see him tomorrow,” I answered. Peter frowned and opened his mouth. Time to move on.

“I hear you took Sarah’s dog, Freedom,” I remarked slyly. “I thought you hated dogs.”

Peter let out another groan. “I do, but Freedom was Sarah’s dog,” he said, as if this explained everything. His voice rose in pitch as he continued. “Freedom irritates me almost as much as Sarah did. The first thing that damn dog did when I took him to our house was to run away back to hers.” His face grew pinched in annoyance. “I had to retrieve him!”

I stifled a giggle. I could imagine Peter retrieving Freedom, mutt hair all over his pinstripe suit. “How’s your wife like him?” I asked.

“God!” Peter exploded. “Nancy hates dogs! Especially ones who defecate in her garden.” He looked at me. “You know what a sweet woman she is, spiritual and loving.”

I nodded. She seemed that way. And even if I hadn’t known from personal experience, I figured she had to be a saint to live with Peter. Peter continued.

“When she sees a dog in her garden, she loses all reason.” He lowered his voice. “She karate-kicks them.”

“You’re kidding!”

He shook his head sadly.