Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (20 page)

“Sunday morning, breakfast in bed,” he mumbled and reached for me.

I took his hand from my body and kissed it softly. “I’ve got a funeral to go to,” I whispered.

The optimism left his face abruptly. His brows lowered. He got out of bed slowly.

“I’ll go with you,” he growled.

I looked up at him, wondering if I would learn anything pertinent at Sarah’s funeral with my bodyguard in tow.

“You’re going to ask questions there?” he asked. I nodded my head.

His brows dropped further.

“It’s dangerous, Kate,” he said quietly.

“I know that,” I told him, keeping my tone even with an effort. I swung my legs out of bed and stood up quickly. Too quickly. I swayed dizzily as I tried to remain standing.

Wayne stepped toward me and laid a hand on my shoulder to steady me. I put my arms around him.

“I love you, you know,” I whispered into the hair on his chest.

He didn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t even hear me.

I broke away and pulled open the door to the back deck. I pointed at the charred woodpile. “I have to know who did this,” I told him. “I have to know who killed Sarah.”

But—” he began. Then he stopped.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll go,” he said quietly.

He began dressing. I closed the door, suddenly aware of my own nudity. I hoped none of the neighbors were peeking. Dropseat pajamas were bad enough.

His face was stone when he turned to say goodbye.

“Call when you’re ready,” he said.

I didn’t have a chance to ask him, “ready” for what. He left too quickly.

I threw myself into the shower and tried to think of other things. Funerals, for instance. I knew they were important rituals, though I couldn’t remember exactly why. As I soaped, I switched my thoughts to Jerry, my unobtrusive gardener. I had never really talked to him in the same way I talked to Vivian. He was no friend, just the man who came and did things in my garden. I paid his bills by mail. Felix’s revelations about Jerry had surprised me into considering him seriously as a suspect. Could he have set my logs on fire? I assured myself that it wasn’t too late to investigate and dried off.

It took me ten minutes of searching through my jumble of business cards to find Jerry’s phone number. And when I called the number, all I got was his answering machine. I hung up without leaving a message. Then I went to the garden and picked some orange chrysanthemums for Sarah.

Barbara picked me up at twenty after ten in her souped-up Volkswagen bug. She had insisted on driving. Funeral services were set for eleven at the Jasmine Mortuary Chapel. I didn’t want to be late. I didn’t want Barbara to have to speed to get there.

Barbara’s driving was, at best, flamboyant. She liked to keep eye contact with her passengers while she was talking. And her car tended to swerve in time with her emphatic head movements. This was actually quite an effective form of communication. I have never forgotten some of the things she has said in her car, but only because her words were burned into my memory by fear. After an intense session of mobile conversation with Barbara, my right leg usually ached from trying to put on the brakes for her. And it got worse when she was in a hurry.

She had never actually hit anyone. I always reminded myself of that while riding with her. And I kept closing my eyes. But even with my eyes closed, I could still feel the swerves, accented by the anxious honks and beeps of other drivers.

On the way to the mortuary I tried to keep conversation at a minimum. It was no use. While drifting into the right lane, Barbara asked about the people that she was likely to meet at Sarah’s funeral. She talked about doing her psychic best to discover the murderer among them. Then, while switching lanes for the highway turnoff, she discussed her plans for Monday’s seance. Finally, she turned her attention to my relationship with Wayne. I gave her an edited version of the night before and the disastrous morning.

“Kate, you love that man,” she insisted as she cut off a Safeway truck. She didn’t seem to notice the blare of its horn. I winced and gripped my seat.

“Why do you always push him away?” she continued.

“It was him that—” I began. Then I stopped. It was both of us. I changed tack. “Where are we supposed to live if we get married?” I demanded instead. “Where would I do business? Actually, between the bedroom suites, cathedral living room, library, game room and indoor spa, I’m sure I could find a spot,” I admitted. “But where would I feel
comfortable
doing my business? Where could I pile up my messy stacks—”

“How about your house?” she suggested.

“My house, huh!” I snorted. “My house would fit into one of Wayne’s bedroom suites. It just doesn’t have enough room—”

“You’re just afraid Wayne will leave you like Craig did,” she diagnosed.

I didn’t answer her. I crossed my arms and stared resolutely forward. What a low blow.

She turned her steady gaze on my face.

We veered into the next lane.

“All right, all right!” I screeched, matching the sound of the car behind us. “Maybe I am a little paranoid about marriage.”

“A little,” she snorted, meandering back into her own lane. She turned down the road that led to the mortuary.

“What kind of service do you think they’ll have for Sarah?” I asked. “She wasn’t a member of any church, she was just… just New Age.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Barbara answered, skidding into a parking space marked “For Mourners Only.”

The main lobby had a tasteful bulletin board directing us to the Serenity Room for Sarah’s funeral. The Serenity Room seemed preferable to the other choices, which included the Quietude Room and the Eternity Room. My stomach tightened with dread.

“This stuff is so spooky,” I whispered to Barbara and clutched her arm. “It really gets to me.”

“Just pretend we’re on another planet visiting aliens,” she replied. As we passed the ladies room she said, “Hey look, the Eternal Rest Room!” We softly giggled the rest of the way down the long corridor.

Peter was at the door to the Serenity Room. He looked like the stereotypical funeral director in his impeccable black suit.

“Hello, Peter,” I said, injecting seriousness back into my tone. “This is my friend Barbara.”

He looked at Barbara, an expression of disapproval tightening his lean face. I assumed the disapproval was directed at her low-cut jumpsuit. Or maybe that was just the expression he felt was appropriate at a funeral.

He forced a “Hello, Barbara” out of his stiff mouth, then turned his face to me. “It appears I’m the unofficial usher here,” he complained. “This operation isn’t very well-organized.”

“What exactly is the operation here?” I asked nervously.

“Do you see that woman over there in the orange and purple robes?” he said. My eyes followed his and saw a tiny dark-haired woman dressed in Sarah’s favorite colors. “Her name is Teala. She’s from the Trancenjoy Foundation,” he said.

“The what?” I asked.

Peter’s tense face tightened further. A tic had developed at his temple. “It’s some kooky organization that Sarah was involved in,” he explained in a censorious tone. “Sarah’s sister Ellen brought this woman in to do the service today. She wants to talk to all of us who knew Sarah, including you, Kate. We are going to be assigned parts in this… this ceremony.” His nostrils flared in evident disgust.

My stomach spasmed. I might need the “Eternal Rest Room” after all. A funeral was bad enough. Public speaking didn’t even bear thinking about.

“Peter, it’s twenty to eleven,” I whispered urgently. “How can we be assigned parts now?”

“I said this operation lacked organization,” he snapped. Then he remembered his role as unofficial host. “Shall I introduce you around while we wait for Tony?” he offered.

“Sure,” I said and turned to look at the rest of the mourners. I saw my ex-husband, Craig, first. He was in animated conversation with a man who was a stranger to me, a lean man with handsome Japanese features.

“Who’s that talking to Craig?” I asked Peter.

“His name is Dave Yakamura,” Peter whispered. “He worked with Sarah.” He gave me a meaningful look.

“I thought she worked alone—” I began.

“Wayne’s here,” Barbara whispered in my ear. I forgot all about Craig and Dave Yakamura.

I turned slowly to look at Wayne. There he was, all alone at the back of the room, his face exhibiting all the animation of concrete.

Barbara and I strolled his way nonchalantly, leaving Peter at the door.

“Hiya, big boy,” I greeted Wayne in a whisper.

He didn’t return my greeting. He didn’t even blink. My back stiffened. I told myself he just wanted to remain incognito. It wouldn’t be easy with his mashed face. On the other hand, no one was hanging around trying to make social chitchat with him. Maybe isolation was what he craved.

Barbara and I wandered back across the room. I heard a familiar voice behind us.

“Howdy, hi, Kate,” said Felix. Then he planted a big kiss on Barbara’s nose. “Yum, yum,” he murmured, peeking down the top of her jumpsuit.

I watched them sadly. As obnoxious as Felix was, at least he was being nice to his sweetie. Why wasn’t Wayne kissing me on the nose? I took a look back at him. Wayne wasn’t alone anymore. Linda Zatara had joined him. I smiled a malicious smile, thinking of the frustration she would endure if she tried to get any information from him. He could do the silent treatment every bit as well as she could. A rock talking to a hard place, I mused.

“Wanna meet the main folks?” Felix asked.

“I suppose you already know everyone in the room,” Barbara teased him.

“Just doing my job, babe,” he said with a big grin.

Felix introduced us to Sarah’s neighbors, the Baums, a kindly old couple who said, “she was such a nice girl,” some of the people who Sarah had worked with on the Nuclear Free Marin campaign, and a few people from the local dramatic society who had used Sarah’s robots in various roles for their plays. The conversations seemed like party chatter, except that the tones were hushed and the subject was usually Sarah.

As soon as I could do so politely, I disengaged myself and strolled up to Craig and Dave Yakamura. But my mind wasn’t strolling. It was racing. I hadn’t realized before that Sarah worked with anyone. I had assumed she was an independent. If Dave Yakamura worked with her he might have a motive, as well as the requisite knowledge of computers.

“Craig,” I said, touching his shoulder. I glanced back at Wayne quickly, hoping the touch hadn’t bothered him. Nothing showed on his face. He and Linda were standing side by side like a mismatched pair of gargoyles.

Craig, however, was delighted by the touch. “Kate,” he said in a low purr. He stared at me for a moment with obvious longing in his eyes. Too obvious, I concluded. I didn’t want to be manipulated by Craig anymore.

“Introduce me to your friend,” I ordered briskly.

“Kate, this is Dave Yakamura,” Craig said obediently. “Dave, this is my ex-wife, Kate.”

If Dave found anything strange in this introduction he was too polite to mention it. He just smiled and shook my hand vigorously.

“So, Dave, I understand you worked with Sarah,” I plunged in.

“I didn’t actually work with her,” he explained in a soft, pleasant voice. He was certainly quick with his denial, I thought suspiciously. “It’s been years since I saw her personally. But she wrote software for us. She uploaded it to us in San Rafael by modem.” He shook his head sadly. “She sure loved computers. And robots,” he added as an afterthought.

I stiffened for a moment, thinking of the robot that had killed her. I told myself to calm down and ask questions.

“What does your company do?” I prodded.

“Robots,” he answered. My pulse jumped. Dave fished into his pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to me.

I looked down at the silver-on-black logo. It read “2020 Robots, Dave Yakamura, President.”

“Are these the robots—” I began slowly.

But Dave was looking over my shoulder.

“Linda!” he shouted and waved. “Excuse me,” he apologized, “I see an old friend.”

Linda Zatara was his old friend? Was this the connection I had been looking for? I watched him walk over to her. He seemed to be limping. I wondered if his limp was permanent. Or did he hurt himself in some extraordinary physical activity like, for instance, setting a log pile on fire? I told myself to forget it. The man just limped. He reached Linda, and the two of them walked off together leaving Wayne in stony isolation.

“How are you, Kate?” Craig asked softly.

I jumped. I had forgotten all about him.

“Fine,” I lied. I looked over his shoulder and spotted Janice Jackson talking with Donald Simpson. What an opportunity.

“Craig, I see someone—” I began.

“So introduce me,” a loud voice with an East Coast accent demanded from somewhere behind me.

I turned and saw a large blond woman with a big grin on her face. She stepped forward and slapped Craig on the back. Craig hastily identified me as Kate Jasper and the blond woman as Ellen Quinn. Then he smiled weakly, murmured his apologies and disappeared.