Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (15 page)

“I’ve never seen Nancy act like that,” I said wonderingly. “She’s always so… so serene.”

“If you were a dog, you wouldn’t think she was serene. Just try making a mess in her garden. Even a human who bothered her garden might get karate-kicked.”

Our waitress brought our dinners before he could expand on the theme. She handed me a plate of rice, beans and papayas. I sniffed it suspiciously. It smelled good. I dug in for a bite. Peter picked up his zebra burger and munched fastidiously.

“So, Kate,” he said a moment later, wiping his chin with a khaki napkin. “I’m learning a new computer system. Maybe you could give me some assistance.”

“I don’t know anything about computers,” I mumbled through a mouthful of beans. “Except how to use a word processor and spreadsheet.” The rice and beans were surprisingly good and spicy. And the papaya was a good complement.

“What makes you think I could help you?” I asked after I swallowed. Then I remembered that Sarah’s murderer must have known how to program a computer. I grabbed my opportunity. “You’re pretty good with computers yourself, aren’t you?” I prompted.

“Oh, I hack around a bit,” he replied modestly. “But I don’t really have the expertise that Craig does, for instance.”

“Peter, do you have a VCR?” I asked abruptly.

“Yes,” he confessed. “I own one.” I watched his face go red. Was this a sign of guilt? I sucked in my breath. Had Peter been the one to leave the
Philadelphia Beat
message?

“We use it to tape educational programs,” he explained shrilly. “And occasionally for quality films. I know you don’t own a TV, but there really are some good shows on PBS. It’s not all pablum for the masses, you know!” I let out my breath. He was probably just embarrassed to be caught enjoying the pablum of the masses.

“Why do you want to know?” he finally thought to ask.

“Oh,” I mumbled, taking another bite. “I was just curious.”

“Indeed?” Peter glared at me suspiciously for a moment before continuing. “I remember Craig really seemed to enjoy Sarah’s computer setup. Did you two go over there often?” he said.

It finally hit me.

“Peter, are you interrogating me?” I asked loudly, clattering my fork down on the table.

He jerked his head around nervously to see if anyone had heard me.

“Yes, dammit!” he hissed.

“Welcome to the club,” I said. “I’m interrogating you, too.” I picked up my fork again, laughing.

“This is no laughing matter,” Peter snapped. He thrust his head forward and glared intently. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Were you jealous of Sarah?”

“Well,” I considered. “A little. But I wouldn’t have wanted to be her.” I looked back at him. “Why? Is that your idea of a motive?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ll admit I couldn’t think of a very good one for you. Or for Linda.”

“Linda’s been asking me about you,” I told him.

Peter stiffened in his chair. “What’s she been asking about?”

“Drugs in college,” I answered softly, keeping my eyes on him. It was worth the effort. The blood drained from his face, leaving it a gaunt white mask. His hamburger slipped from his hand back onto his plate, splashing a thin spray of juice onto his white shirt cuff.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, more to himself than to me. He rocked his head back and forth slowly. “I had hoped the past wouldn’t haunt me. I’ll never get a seat on the bench if…” His voice trailed off. I watched him as he visibly pulled himself together. He straightened his shoulders and dabbed at his shirt cuff with a napkin. Then he turned his glare on me in full force.

“Do you know where Sarah met Linda?” he demanded.

“No… I don’t,” I said slowly. “Do you?”

He shook his head in short jerking motions. “Do you know anything about her?” he pressed.

“No,” I answered honestly. I didn’t know anything yet. “All I know is that Sarah seemed to like her.”

“But why?” Peter asked. He wrinkled his forehead as he began cutting his zebra burger into neat little pieces with his knife and fork. “What in the world did Sarah see in that woman?”

I thought about it. “Linda listened,” I decided. “Sarah liked people who listened to her.”

“Dammit!” Peter exploded. He dropped his knife and fork abruptly. “I never wanted that woman in our group.”

“But Sarah wanted her, so she stayed,” I reminded him. I watched Peter as I spoke, remembering how angry he had been over Sarah’s intransigence. Peter met my eyes.

“I did not murder Sarah Quinn,” he said firmly. I was glad to hear him say it. I just hoped he was speaking the truth.

“Well, for the record,” I replied, “nor did I.”

I saw his face relax. He was relieved too. I dropped my eyes to my plate, suddenly embarrassed by my suspicions. I ate for a while in silence, working my way through the rice and beans and papayas. When I looked up again Peter was making notations in a small leather notebook with his silver Cross pen. I smiled. He would take notes. He caught my look and shoved the notebook and pen into his breast pocket. Then he speared what was left of his zebra burger.

“About Craig,” he said in a nonchalant voice. “Did he ever use Sarah’s computer?”

I sighed, but answered. “He never really
used
it. He played with it a few times.”

Peter nodded with satisfaction. He reached for his notebook again.

“Peter, that was over two years ago,” I pointed out irritably. “While Craig was still in the study group. I doubt if he’s even seen Sarah since.”

“Are you sure of that?” Peter asked in an insinuating tone. He opened the notebook.

“No,” I admitted. “But you’re barking up the wrong tree. Craig can be a jerk at times, but he’s not murderer material.”

Peter smiled smugly and put his pen to paper. “Let me be the judge of that,” he said.

“All right, all right,” I told him. “You can be a judge if you want to.” The smug expression left his face. His eyes narrowed.

“Are you making fun of me?” he asked.

“No, not me,” I assured him in a voice of pure innocence. I bent forward. “But before you write anything else down, let me remind you that you’re the one who was always threatening to strangle Sarah.”

Peter laid his notebook on the table and sighed heavily. “I know,” he admitted. “I don’t feel very proud of that now. But, dammit, she was the last person I would have expected to actually die.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, taking pity on him. “I think she really liked you threatening her. That’s how she could tell that she really had you stirred up.”

“Thank you, Kate,” he said quietly. Now I wondered if
he
was teasing. Then I remembered. Peter didn’t know how to tease.

“Did you ever go over to her house, besides the times we had the study group there?” I asked.

“A few times with Nancy,” he answered. He didn’t pause to think it over. “But not for a year at least.” He opened his notebook again and riffled the pages. “The group only met at Sarah’s fourteen times in three years.” He looked up at me. “I counted the days on my calendar. I would doubt that any of us were in her house long enough to learn how to operate the computer. Or the robots.”

“
Could
you have programmed her robot?” I pressed on.

“It’s possible,” he replied earnestly. “Given enough time to familiarize myself with her system.” I looked into his clear eyes. Was his honesty just a ploy to convince me what a guileless person he really was? I had to keep reminding myself that this man was a skilled trial attorney. I observed his face closely as I asked my next question.

“How much do you want to be a judge?” Peter popped up in his seat, his eyebrows raised.

“Dammit, that could be a motive, couldn’t it?” he barked. He shook his head ruefully. “Blackmail. I hadn’t even considered it.” He reached for his notebook again.

“Peter, you don’t have to write down your own motives, for God’s sake!” I let out a hoot of laughter without thinking.

Peter’s face reddened once more. I smiled at him, inviting him to smile back. He didn’t. He didn’t even accuse me of making fun of him. He shot me a hurt look, bent his head over his plate, and ate the remains of his burger in silence. I finished off my “native’s fare” quickly. I had run out of questions for Peter.

I was deep in thought when I got home. Was Peter a superb and evil actor? Or merely a pompous innocent? I opened the door and stepped into the house. As I did, I heard a rasping sound and saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

Instinctively, I stepped back. The movement I had seen resolved itself into the hurtling form of a potted plant, which crashed to the floor at my feet. I stood there, stunned for a moment, staring at shards of clay pot, fern fronds and scattered dirt on the wooden floor.

Then the residual buzz of adrenaline kicked in. My body began to shake as I looked up and saw the remains of the macrame network which had held the potted plant. One of the three suspension ropes was hanging down, revealing its frayed end. Time to breathe, I told myself. But as I sucked in a deep, trembling breath, uninvited questions began shouting for my attention.

Was this a murder attempt? Was someone really trying to kill me? I looked at the pot. It was only four inches in diameter. I doubted that it would have even knocked me out, let alone killed me. Was I dealing with a stupid murderer or perhaps just a naively hopeful one? A picture of Nick formed in my mind. Or was someone just trying to scare me? I could see the end of the rope from where I stood. It didn’t look cut. It looked worn through.

I dragged a ladder to the scene and climbed up to examine the other end of the rope. It too looked frayed and worn. The individual threads which had made it up ended at slightly different lengths and were spread outward. If they had been cut with a knife, wouldn’t they have been more even? And how could it have been arranged to finally break at the exact moment that I walked in? I briefly considered calling Sergeant Feiffer as I climbed down from the ladder. Very briefly.

Lighten up,
I told myself. It had been twenty years since I had bought the macrame hanger. Who decorated with macrame any longer? In Sarah’s terms, the universe was probably telling me it was time to hire an interior designer. With that in mind, I cleaned up the mess, listened to my answering machine’s messages and returned to the business of my business. But my fear had blossomed like a spring daffodil.

I worked until midnight. Avoidance of fear is a great incentive for boring work. At midnight I put on my purple-striped dropseat pajamas with the feet in them and rolled into bed exhausted. C.C. materialized in front of me and climbed onto my chest. I put my arms around her gratefully and fell asleep.

It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when I woke with a start. C.C. was gone. And someone was calling my name.

- Eleven -

Had someone really called me? Or had I dreamt it? I lay there under the covers, straining to hear. There was a rustling sound, then the muffled voice again.

“Kate,” the voice called.

Who the hell was it? I sat up groggily and waited for the voice to call once more. Maybe then I could recognize the person it belonged to. But all I heard was a loud bang on the door that led from my bedroom to my back deck. At least the sound was loud enough to convince me I wasn’t dreaming. Reluctantly, I pulled myself from my warm bed. Why was someone banging on my back door in the middle of the night? Why weren’t they knocking on my front door?

There was another loud bang on the door.

“All right, all right!” I shouted, stepping around the bed toward the door.

But I paused when I reached it.

“Who’s there?” I called out nervously.

There was no answer. But the rustling sound was getting louder. Was that the wind?

Raccoons, I thought suddenly. It was just some raccoons playing on the deck. I had forgotten what a racket they could make. I reached for the doorknob with a sleepy sigh of relief. By the time it occurred to me to wonder how raccoons could call out my name, I had already turned the knob and pulled back the door.

An explosion of sound and light and heat blasted me back a step. In the instant of that backward step my sleep-sodden mind took in what was in front of me.

Fire!

In the yard, a few feet away from the deck my neatly stacked log pile was on fire. It was now a four by ten foot log itself, alive with orange flames writhing and pirouetting into the sky like Halloween spirits. And the roar! The crackling blotted out everything else. How had I heard my name and the banging over that sound? For yet another instant I wondered if I was indeed dreaming. A fire three feet from my back deck? Three feet from burning down my redwood-shingled house? It didn’t seem possible in the waking world. But another instant of heat and sound was all it took to convince me that it was real.

Move! my mind shouted. I slammed the door shut and ran through the house to the telephone, barely noticing as I caromed off a wall in the hall. I dialed 911, muttering “please, oh please,” under my breath to a god I didn’t really know. They put me on hold.

I screamed “Fire!” into the silent phone.

It must have been less than a minute before they came back to me, but it was an eternity too long. “Fire!” I screamed again and babbled out my address as the man on the other end of the line told me to calm down.