Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (27 page)

Barbara closed both eyes again. But it didn’t work. “I’m not getting anything more,” she announced after a few deep breaths. “Nope, my guide says that’s the end of transmission. ‘Whoops’ is all you get.”

“Wait a minute—” Peter began.

“Sarah’s a real kidder, isn’t she?” Barbara interrupted easily as she opened both her eyes and stretched. “That’s it, folks. You get to figure out what it means. What a kick!”

“But Sarah didn’t say who killed her,” I objected.

“Apparently that doesn’t concern her anymore,” Barbara said dryly.

Barbara rose to leave as Peter’s mouth opened again.

“I would like to—” he started.

He never finished his sentence. Barbara grabbed her purse, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and was down the stairs to her Volkswagen, before he had a chance.

“I told you that woman wasn’t qualified,” said Peter. “And another thing—”

- Nineteen -

“It’s okay, Peter,” Tony interrupted gently. He rose from his chair and stood behind the agitated attorney. “No harm done,” he soothed as his hands massaged Peter’s shoulders. Linda watched them unblinkingly from her chair.

Peter allowed Tony to work his shoulders, and limited himself to scowling for a few moments. I was glad for the break. I needed time to think about the seance. And about Barbara. Why had I failed to notice the similarities between Barbara and Sarah before? They both shared the ability to drive Peter up a wall. They both managed to revel in whatever experience came their way. And then there was the way that Barbara had left. Actually, I had never noticed Barbara leaving so abruptly before. Was her uncharacteristic departure due to Sarah’s influence? Damn. That was a spooky thought.

“Was that your friend’s idea of a joke?” Peter asked. But his voice was calmer now.

“Actually—” Tony began thoughtfully. He stopped massaging Peter’s shoulders. “I wonder if it might be
Sarah’s
idea of a joke.”

“You know, it does seem more like Sarah than Barbara,” I said slowly. “And Barbara wouldn’t pretend to get a message if she didn’t. I’m sure of that. But Sarah, on the other hand—”

Peter stood up. “I’ve wasted enough time on this… this event,” he declared ungraciously and marched to the door. He turned back for a moment to glare at me. “I’ll talk to
you
later,” he said. It sounded like a threat. He slammed the door on the way out.

I stared at the door and thought about Peter. How come he could accept Sarah telling him he created his own reality in a dream, but refused to accept a channeled “whoops”?

“Maybe ‘whoops’ really means something,” Tony said eagerly, bringing me back to the present. I turned to look at him. His open face was lit with hope as he spoke. “Maybe she was trying to let us know that her death really was an accident.”

“I hate to tell you this, Tony,” I said softly. “But I don’t think an accident’s very likely.” I paused. “Sarah’s gardener was murdered today. There has to be a connection.” I watched his face as I spoke. And Linda’s. Tony’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped for a moment. Linda didn’t blink.

“I just don’t understand what’s going on here,” Tony murmured miserably. “There must be a reason for all of this. Are you sure the poor guy was murdered?”

“He was hit over the head with a shovel,” I answered.

“That’s terrible,” Tony whispered, shaking his head.

I wanted to ask Tony where he had been when Jerry had been killed. But when I looked into his worried face, I just couldn’t. I turned to Linda instead.

“Where were
you
this morning?” I asked outright, no longer caring how she felt about my bluntness.

I thought I saw a smile flicker for an instant on her face. I wasn’t sure, though.

“Around,” she answered a beat later. Then she slithered out the door.

I turned back to Tony. He was staring at me, round-eyed and pale.

“Kate,” he said somberly. “In case you want to know, I was at The Elegant Vegetable, working on the books this morning. Josie was cooking.”

“Oh, Tony—” I began guiltily. How could I suspect him?

“It’s okay,” he assured me.

Then he helped me carry the chairs back to the kitchen. We moved the couch back where it had been and sat down, side by side. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited Linda, I reflected. Maybe I should have warned people about her. But somehow the threat of journalistic exposure had seemed pretty lightweight after finding Jerry’s ant-covered body. And after six months of talking freely in front of her, a warning that day would have been a case of locking the proverbial barn door once the horse had gone. I promised myself I would confront her soon, though.

Tony let out a long sigh. I squeezed his arm and told him that I was coming to The Elegant Vegetable the next day with a friend. He smiled, but his smile expressed more sadness than enthusiasm. He got up slowly from the couch, murmured “Take care” and shuffled out the door like an old man.

On the way to my ex-husband’s office at eight-thirty I spotted a familiar bottle-green Jaguar in the rearview mirror. Good. Wayne was on the job again. But how would he feel seeing me with Craig, I wondered guiltily.

Craig greeted me at the door with a big smile. I dodged his attempted hug. I was there for information, not romance. And Wayne might be watching.

“Gee, you’re working late,” I said conversationally. “Did you spend your whole morning here, too?”

I watched the smile leave his face. The tone hadn’t fooled him. “Why?” he demanded.

“You first,” I insisted.

“Yes, I spent my whole morning here,” he answered evenly. “You can ask my secretary if you need confirmation.” He paused. “Now tell me why you’re interested.”

“I’ll tell you in the car,” I promised.

By the time my Toyota got to Mushrooms, Craig knew everything I did about Jerry’s death. At first he had been noisily concerned over my involvement. But when I told him I didn’t want to hear about it anymore, he had dutifully changed the subject. He was telling me about a new software contract he had landed as we walked into the restaurant.

Mushrooms may have been located in a windowless cavern, but it was a chic windowless cavern. Fish tanks were inserted into the pale blue walls with artistic randomness. The tanks glowed softly as did the rosy shell-shaped fixtures on the tables. There was just enough light to read the menus, but not enough to intrude on a romantic mood. I always felt like I was underwater when I ate at Mushrooms. The taped whales singing softly in the background helped the illusion.

Our host sat us in front of one of the glowing fish tanks. Craig did a noisy fish imitation, snorting and blowing out his cheeks. I tried to smile. Craig often reverted to humor in times of stress, usually mine. As I watched him, I remembered the years of intense conversations in which I had insisted desperately, “I’m serious,” and he had replied, “I’m Roebuck, let’s start a department store.” Somehow in retrospect, it seemed pretty funny. It hadn’t then. God, I didn’t want to be married again, even if Wayne was a different man than Craig.

I had forgotten how expensive Mushrooms was. And Craig insisted on ordering the works. Mushroom pâté green salad and the mushroom platter for two, which included stuffed mushrooms, teriyaki mushrooms and lemon mushrooms. As I handed my menu back to the waiter, I vowed to split the bill down the middle with Craig.

I was pondering a subtle approach to interrogating Craig about Sarah’s computer when the pâté and crackers came.

“Did Sarah have a modem?” I asked. I’ve never been very subtle.

“Yes, but why do you—?” His eyes came up, startled. “Oh, murder by modem,” he said slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He spread pâté on a cracker.

“How does a modem work, exactly?” I asked.

“It depends,” he answered. He shoved the cracker in his mouth absently, chewed and swallowed. “In general, a modem enables you to access a computer over the telephone so you don’t actually have to be there.” He paused again, spreading pâté on all the crackers as he thought. “Sarah uploaded her software to Dave Yakamura by modem,” he said finally.

My brain tingled. Dave Yakamura. But I wasn’t limiting myself to one suspect. “Could someone else have dialed in?” I asked eagerly.

“Hypothetically, they could,” he mumbled through a mouthful of crackers. “But they would need her password and account name to get in.” He shook his head. “I doubt that she would have given anyone her password.”

“But couldn’t someone have figured it out?” I pressed.

“Well, there are ways.” He sighed and looked at me, his eyes asking me to leave it alone. I kept my gaze level. He rattled off a few scenarios. “They could just dial in every possibility until they happened on one that worked, but that would take a few million years. Or they could tap the line and run it through a modem analyzer. Or they could look over her shoulder when she was working, but I don’t think she let people do that.” He shook his head and popped another cracker in his mouth.

“Anyhow,” he mumbled dispiritedly. “As far as I know, those robots weren’t even set up to be run remotely.”

“But it is possible?”

“Just possible,” he agreed. “But not probable.” He shoved another cracker in and frowned at me as he chewed. He looked like a concerned chipmunk.

“All right,” I said. “Say for the sake of argument that the robots could be run remotely, and that someone had her password and account name.” I paused for a breath. “Could they have programmed her robot long-distance?”

He let out a long sigh before conceding, “Maybe, given a lot of conditions. The robot program was probably pretty simple, and a modem might give you access to the computer. But the line quality sucks and the graphics wouldn’t be very good either.”

“But it could be done?” I insisted.

“Conceivably, Kate,” he gave in unhappily. “But it’s not likely. You’d need a pretty clear map of the coordinates of the house in the first place. And you’d want to test it before you actually tried it.”

I reached for a cracker. They were all gone. Maybe I wouldn’t split the bill fifty-fifty with Craig.

The waiter brought us our salads. I took a bite before springing my next question.

“Could it have been done from New Jersey?” I asked.

“So that’s what you’re thinking,” he said slowly. He looked through me for a moment as he considered the question. “Not likely,” he concluded, shaking his head. “No map of the house, poor line quality, and how would she have picked up the password?” He paused. “Maybe it’s not totally impossible…” He paused again.

“Yeah,” I prompted eagerly.

“But it ranks up there with the longest long shots.” His lips curled into a weak smile. “Like I’m the reincarnation of Cleopatra. Like Gore Vidal will win the next presidential election. Like you could go on the Ed Sullivan show—”

“But Ed Sullivan’s dead,” I objected.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he told me. “A long shot as long as—”

“I get the idea,” I said hastily.

We ate our salads in silence, while Craig’s face grew more and more serious.

“Kate, I’m worried about you,” he announced finally. He slid his empty salad plate to the side and leaned forward. “Please let me move back into the house,” he whispered. “Just for the time being. Just until this is settled.”

If only Wayne had made that offer, I thought with a surge of self-pity. I pushed the feeling away and turned my attention back to Craig. Craig had been cooperative. I owed him a gentle refusal.

“Thanks for the offer,” I said softly. “But I’ll be all right.” I put some fun into my voice. “I know tai chi, remember?” I mimed a tai chi struggle with an invisible opponent. But he didn’t smile.

He looked at me with big brown puppy-dog eyes. “Seriously, Kate,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I miss you.”

“Seriously?” I replied. “Does that make me Roebuckly of department store fame?” I pulled my hand out of reach. He looked so sad.

“You must have women swarming all over you,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “I’ve been informed that intelligent, single, straight men are as rare around here as tofu burgers at the Cattlemen’s Annual Barbecue.”

“That’s what everyone says, but it’s not true!” Craig exploded. His puppy-dog eyes looked rabid now. “I cannot tell you the disastrous dates I’ve been on. Everyone keeps pushing me to go out with these
awful
women. Either they want to go to some bar, with smoke and booze, or they say ‘Let’s go out for ice cream,’ like it’s something healthy they’re suggesting instead of poison—”

I couldn’t help laughing. He was a worse food fanatic than I was.

He looked startled by my laughter for a moment; then slowly his face softened. He smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry about that,” he said and went back to fish imitations as our waiter approached with our third course.

The mushroom platter was delicious. And Craig kept the conversation light. I stuffed my mouth as he amused me with comic tales of his various dates. He told me about one date who made her living selling powdered urine to drug-users who wanted to beat the urine tests. I wasn’t sure if he was serious. He put on a falsetto voice and a dazed stare to imitate a woman he had gone out with who was “really into celibacy.” He kept the comedy rolling until we left the restaurant.