Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (3 page)

We watched the back of the car as it shot out of the driveway, popping gravel. The license plate read iloveme and a bumper sticker affirmed “Too Hip, Gotta Go.”

Peter snarled, “I could strangle that woman,” once more for the road, and our Sunday discussion group broke up for the day.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I wish I could claim it was because of my precognition of death. But it wasn’t. I was worrying about a lot of things that Sunday night, but mostly I was worrying about Wayne.

I popped out of bed, dislodging C.C. from her comfortable position on my chest. She scolded me as I began to pace the length of the bedroom.
My lover Wayne,
I said to myself sadly as I reached one wall. I turned. Some lover. I stomped angrily toward the other wall. We hadn’t made love in three months!

I stopped pacing to pick up C.C. She was a small black cat with white spots, one shaped like a goatee on her chin and another like a beret balanced rakishly over her right ear. I buried my face in her fur and hugged her. She squirmed impatiently out of my arms. Damn. My cat didn’t even love me anymore.

I sighed and wandered into the living room, struggling with my wide-awake mind. Wayne and I had been blissful lovers for almost a year when my divorce from my husband Craig had been declared final.

And then the fertilizer had hit the proverbial fan. Wayne wanted to marry me. A simple enough desire. Except that I didn’t want to be married.

I sat in one of the canvas chairs that hung from the beams of the ceiling, remembering Wayne sitting in the chair when we had met two years ago. He had been so shy, so… so unassertive.

I let out a deep, martyr’s sigh. Our relationship had been everything
I
wanted. At least until the prospect of marriage had reared its ugly head. I pushed off with my feet and let my chair swing slowly back and forth.

Wayne was a man of such contradictions. A gentle man with a black belt in karate. A man with a scarred and battered face on top of a gorgeous body. A man with a law degree who had spent most of his adult years as a bodyguard and companion to a wealthy manic-depressive. An articulate writer whose speech was brusque, often to the point of unintelligibility. And a kind and loving man who was as stubborn as I was.

For many months Wayne had gone along with my hesitation about marriage. But finally he got fed up. Then, three months ago, he became militant. Either we were married or we were “just friends,” he insisted. He wouldn’t make love to me until I agreed to marry him. Coy maidenhood from a six-foot-two, muscular bodyguard?

I got up from the swinging chair and walked over to the Texan, one of the pinball machines in the living room. If we got married, would we share expenses? That’s how I would want it. I had been down the road of financial dependency before and it had turned into a dead end. But how do you share expenses with a man who owns a mansion, a Jaguar and a restaurant empire?

I switched on the pinball machine and watched the game light up. The Texan on the backglass gave me a broad, toothy smile that always reminded me of my ex-husband Craig’s. Craig and I had actually managed to have a warm, platonic friendship once we had finally separated. But after his girlfriend’s death, he had begun to think of me romantically again. And as little as I wanted to marry Wayne, I wanted even less to be romantically involved with Craig.

I shot a ball listlessly. It hit a thumper-bumper and careened across the playfield. Bells rang. God, I missed Wayne. Was it time to give up my illusion of independence and marry him? I shook my head. Surrender couldn’t be a good basis for marriage. The ball came plummeting down the playfield. I pressed the flipper button a second too late. The ball touched the flipper’s tip, wobbled uncertainly, then dribbled down the drain hole. I turned off the machine and went back to bed.

I had just fallen asleep with a little help from NatuRest, the “natural” sleeping pill, when the phone rang. Had I forgotten to set my answering machine? The second ring answered the question. I
had
forgotten. I pulled myself out of bed and looked at the clock. It was almost two in the morning.

Groggily, I ran down the hall to the phone in my office. C.C. was ahead of me all the way. I flopped down into my comfy old Naugahyde chair and picked up the receiver. Sarah’s greeting came singing over the line. I grunted in return.

“I’ve got a problem for you, Ms. Detective,” she announced cheerfully as C.C. jumped into my lap.

“I’m not a detective,” I groaned. “Do you realize what time it is?” C.C. began ecstatically purring and clawing my thigh through my pajamas. That hurt! I hadn’t trimmed her claws for weeks.

Sarah’s voice became more serious. “I really need someone to help me figure this out,” she said.

“Figure out what?” I demanded. I was beginning to wake up. I plucked C.C.’s claws from my thigh and held her paws in my hand.

Sarah didn’t answer me right away. “Come on over and we’ll talk about it,” she said finally. C.C. loosened a paw and dug in again. I unceremoniously dumped her on the floor.

“You mean right now?” I asked Sarah incredulously.

“Sure, why not?” she answered, her tone cheerful again. “You’re up, aren’t you?”

“No, not tonight, Sarah,” I told her firmly.

“Just for a few—” she began.

“Tell me about it now, over the phone,” I interrupted. But Sarah wasn’t going to let me off that easily.

“I want you here in person,” she insisted. “Can you come over tomorrow morning?”

“No, I can’t come over tomorrow!” I exploded. Sarah was as imperious as ever and I just wasn’t in the mood for it. After ten more minutes of her badgering, I ungraciously agreed to visit her on Thursday evening.

I slammed down the phone just as C.C. jumped into my lap for another try at my thighs.

“You’d better watch it, cat, or I’ll have you de-clawed permanently,” I threatened, with a glare I wished I could have turned on Sarah. C.C. looked at me unblinkingly and sank her claws in again. I dumped her on the floor once more, set my answering machine and went back to bed. Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I’ll trim her nails.

The next morning I overslept. It was after ten, and I had a NatuRest hangover. So much for “natural.” I was lying in bed when I heard a sound in the house. I jerked awake. Was it only C.C.? No, there it was again. A human being was definitely in the house, creeping around. Actually, whoever it was seemed to be
banging
around. A loud burglar? I wondered drowsily.

Still half-asleep, I pulled my robe around me and crept out the bedroom door. I nearly collided with my quarry. I jumped. She jumped higher.

“God, you scared me,” I told her.

“Well, you scared the crap out of me! What the fuck are you doing sneaking up on me like that? And not even dressed yet,” she growled, shaking a handful of wet paper towels at me.

My mysterious burglar was none other than my cleaning lady, Vivian, here as usual on Monday morning to clean house. Vivian was close to my age but she certainly didn’t look it. Especially that morning with her muscles rippling under her Liz Claiborne jumpsuit, her pretty, tan face registering shock, disgust and, finally, amusement. The amusement was one reason I counted my cleaning lady as a friend. The other was that we were born within a few days of each other, under the same sign. The sign was gossip. We both loved talking about other people’s business.

“Wanna do tea?” she asked, pointing her spray cleaner toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, but let me get some clothes on,” I answered, yawning.

“I suppose you want herbal,” she grumbled, her throaty smoker’s voice loaded with disapproval. She had learned to carry her own Lipton tea bags when she came to my house. And on occasion, her own whisky as well.

I stifled another yawn, nodded and shuffled back into my bedroom.

“Hey, you got a shitload of calls on your answering machine!” she yelled behind me.

Monday morning. I brushed my teeth, washed my face and dressed in a hurry. I’d shower later. I didn’t want to miss a good talk with Vivian.

I cooked some Rice ‘n’ Shine brown rice cereal while Vivian made tea for both of us. C.C. came slinking into the kitchen, eyeing Vivian warily. She knew who ran the vacuum cleaner, and she didn’t like her. I gave C.C. some KalKan as a consolation prize and joined Vivian at the kitchen table. Vivian handed me my tea, ran her hand through her bleached curls and started in.

“I don’t see how you can eat that crap without milk or sugar,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward.

“Sugar and dairy will rot your teeth and your mind,” I mumbled incoherently. The cereal was gumming up my mouth. A healthy vegetarian lifestyle has its own hazards.

“You look great,” I told her after I managed to swallow. “Are you still pumping iron?”

“You better believe it. I’m not going to give up these biceps,” she bragged, flexing as she spoke. “Maybe some guy will appreciate them some day.”

“If you’d pick someone for his brains instead of his body, you’d have a better chance,” I reminded her. Vivian, according to her own account, had divorced three husbands. Each one had been incredibly handsome and incredibly stupid. She would fall in love with them at first sight and fail to notice their oafishness until about the time the minister said “I pronounce you…”

“Yeah, I know,” Vivian answered. “Maybe a writer or an artist,” she whispered with a faraway look in her hazel eyes. Then she shook her head and grinned sheepishly.

“Anyway, the muscles make me feel strong,” she went on in a normal voice. “I could take anyone on. Not like your airy-fairy tai chi. It wouldn’t work worth shit against a real mugger.”

“I don’t know,” I said diplomatically. I didn’t tell her how tai chi had once helped save me from being murdered. I didn’t like to think about that incident.

“I’ve heard some amazing stories of tai chi used in self-defense,” I told her instead. “And I’ve seen a movie of the master taking on the Marines. He was fifty-three or fifty-four in the movie, a little tiny man. First, four Marines all tried to push him over. They couldn’t budge him. Then one by one, they punched him in the stomach. He just smiled—”

“It was probably trick photography,” Vivian cut in.

I didn’t argue. I practiced tai chi for the exercise, and for the serenity and clarity of mind that followed a good session. I wasn’t in it for the martial arts aspect.

“It’s a trick,” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. She pulled a pint of J&B whisky out of her purse. “Like this prosperity-consciousness bullshit. Imagine yourself rich and, poof, you will be. Huh! I can imagine being rich. I clean for rich people all day long.” She poured a good dollop of whisky into her tea and tasted it.

She looked at me sadly. “You’re the only one who treats me like a friend. Other people treat me like dirt because I’m not as rich as they are. Is that fair?”

I shook my head sympathetically and took a sip of my own, herbal tea.

She continued, “And no one will give me a programming job. They say I’m a self-taught hacker.” She paused for a long swig from her cup.

Vivian was not in a good mood. I wondered what she’d had to drink
before
she’d arrived.

“And meditation, now there’s a joke,” she muttered angrily. “I’ve tried to meditate. What good does it do?”

Time to derail the woman, I thought.

“What’s the latest on Sarah?” I asked. If anyone would know what was going on in Sarah’s mind, Vivian would.

Vivian shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing. Too bad. I had hoped she would know why Sarah wanted detective assistance.

“Come on,” I prodded, still hoping. “There’s always something new on Sarah.”

“Well, you know her house,” Vivian offered. She smiled a little as she got up to make herself more tea.

I did know Sarah’s house. It was a huge redwood Gothic castle complete with turrets—plus solar panels and skylights. And it was a mess inside. Orange decor dominated the huge rooms, each of which was equipped with a computer terminal. Even the bathrooms were wired. Pictures of gurus, saints and billionaires lined the walls. And piles of computer printouts, dirty laundry, self-help books, leftover food and miscellaneous junk covered the floors. Outside, it was just as bad. A sunken hot tub was surrounded by more debris, in various states of mildew and rust. Sarah paid Vivian double to spend a full day each week carefully dusting and replacing anything not actively rotting.

“Sarah wants to be more ‘open to the universe,’ “ Vivian mimicked, sticking her nose in the air. It was actually a fair imitation. “So she’s taken down all of her curtains. Now all the neighbors will get to see the mess, too. I’ll tell you, she’s not a good advertisement for my cleaning services.” Vivian shook her head. “And the neighbors are still screaming about her dog, Freedom. The local kids call the dog ‘Dumb’ for short. He’s still crapping all over the neighborhood. And she won’t put him on a leash.”

“I guess you can’t put Freedom on a leash,” I joked. “It would be a contradiction in terms.”

“That’s just what Sarah said.” Vivian looked at me suspiciously for a moment. Then she laughed. “‘Freedom on a leash,’ I get it.” She sat back down at the table. “But the biggie is—” She paused dramatically.

“What? Tell me,” I prompted.

“I finally saw her boyfriend!”