Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (30 page)

“So, ‘who’s crazy’ is the question,” I summed up. I tapped my fork on the table and thought. “The obvious one is Nick, the Rodin of the reproductive organs,” I answered, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation.

“He doesn’t seem the right type of crazy to me, though,” Ann replied. Her tone was dead serious. She reached her hand into her hair and twirled a curl around her finger absently, lost in thought.

“No,” I agreed, sighing. “Nick isn’t right. The same goes for the accountant. He’s screwy, but murderous? I don’t think so.”

“How about Sarah’s attorney?” Ann asked.

“She’s a beacon of normalcy in this crowd. And Dave Yakamura appears to be a nice guy, at least on the outside. Of course, there’s Peter.” I smiled for a moment, feeling an unexpected surge of affection for him. I tried to explain. “Peter’s not crazy, just compulsive and perpetually irritated. He wants the world to be perfect and he’s always disappointed when it’s not.”

“A neurotic, not a psychotic,” Ann diagnosed.

That was one way to put it. I nodded and took a bite of my salad before continuing down the list.

“Ellen is certainly obnoxious, for what it’s worth,” I mumbled through the salad. “And Vivian is downright hostile at times.”

“Hostile enough to murder?” Ann demanded.

I swallowed hard. “I just don’t know,” I answered slowly. I thought about it, then shook my head. “I can’t see Vivian as the murderer.”

“Who, then?” Ann prompted. She found a new curl to twirl around her finger and went for it.

“Linda,” I said in a low whisper. “God, that woman’s full of hatred.” I was chilled again just thinking about her. I moved on quickly. “On the other hand, Myra’s pretty strange too. She’s bitter, and she seems right on the edge of insanity.” I paused to consider Myra seriously. “But she probably just sounds nuts because she’s one of these people who’s been in therapy so long that she tells complete strangers her innermost feelings. Anyone sounds like a lunatic if they do that.”

Ann smiled her toothy smile. Too late I remembered her sharing the details of her therapy with me the first time we had met.

“Tony seems the most unlikely to me,” I continued hastily. “He’s so sweet, so good to people.”

“But if he’s that saintly, is he repressed?” asked Ann.

“He’s not repressed sexually,” I assured her.

“I didn’t mean sexually,” Ann said. “I meant anger. Someone that sweet and good has to be suppressing a lot of anger.”

I thought about Tony and couldn’t agree. “I think he really is one of these people who just doesn’t feel that much anger,” I said.

“That makes me suspicious,” Ann insisted, frowning.

I chuckled. After years of therapy, Ann would suspect anyone who didn’t express anger. Then I remembered how serious the question of Tony’s repressed anger could be.

“He
is
the kind who’s described as ‘such a nice young man’ after they dig up the bodies in the basement,” I conceded. Then I shook my head. “No, I just can’t buy him as a murderer.”

“Who else?” prodded Ann.

“Craig,” I said. “He used to know Sarah.”

“I was wondering if you recognized him as a suspect,” Ann commented with a smile.

“Oh yeah,” I admitted. “But like Tony, it just doesn’t fit. Craig rants and raves sometimes, but he never tries to hurt. He’s like a great big friendly dog that’ll knock you over by mistake and then stomp all over you licking your face to apologize.” Ex-husband or not, I knew he wasn’t murderer material.

I looked at Ann’s thoughtful face and sighed. Talking to her had only served to expand my list of suspects. I wasn’t any closer to narrowing it down to one person. Two murders and arson. She was right. Someone had to be pretty sick.

“How’s Wayne doing?” she asked.

I jumped in my chair, startled out of my thoughts. “Still holding out for marriage,” I muttered. I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why don’t you want to marry him?” she asked. There was genuine curiosity in her tone.

“Because!” I cried angrily. I caught myself and modulated my tone. Ann wasn’t the enemy. Even Wayne wasn’t the enemy. “I liked our old relationship,” I told her briefly. “No dirty laundry, no dishes in the sink, no lies.” I sighed. “I just don’t want to be married again.”

“Then you shouldn’t have to be,” she agreed in the time-honored fashion of all good woman friends.

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Any time,” she replied. “Now maybe you can help me with
my
love life.” A blush tinted her brown skin. She reached up to twirl her hair again.

“Who, what?” I asked eagerly.

“I have a new sweetie,” she blurted out. Suddenly she looked very young, despite her dress-for-success suit. Young and insecure.

“That’s wonderful,” I assured her. Ann had been single for a long time. She deserved a good man in her life. “What’s he like?”

“He’s kind and sweet and handsome and charming,” she said uncertainly. “But he is a man.”

I burst into laughter. Ann looked stunned for a second, then grinned and laughed with me.

“So what’s he really like?” I asked finally.

“He’s a Jungian therapist,” she answered. Her eyes looked so vulnerable as she described him.
He ‘d better treat her right,
I thought fiercely. “It makes me a little nervous. But he really is kind and sweet. And he really is handsome and charming.” She was twirling her hair furiously now. “The only friction, so far, is that he’s a meat-eater and doesn’t understand why I’m not.”

“That’s not insurmountable,” I said. “Wayne—” I began, then stopped. Wayne and I weren’t a good example right now.

“I know, I know,” she said. “Every once in a while I sneak off to McDonald’s myself for—” She stopped mid-sentence. “That’s it!” she shouted suddenly. She slapped her palm on the table.

“That’s what?” I asked, startled.

“That’s where I’ve seen Tony!” Her voice was loud and carrying. I saw heads turn toward us.

“At McDonald’s?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” she said, bending forward across the table, her voice quieter now. “The reason I remembered him is because he looked so damned furtive. I could tell he was ashamed of what he was doing.”

“What was he doing?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“He was buying two Big Macs and a milkshake!”

- Twenty-Two -

“Oh, no, not Big Macs!” I protested.

A momentary hush fell over the restaurant. My voice must have carried through the whole room. I could feel a flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks as I turned to look for Tony. He stood staring at me, just through the swinging kitchen doors. He wasn’t smiling. Lines of worry had sharpened his usually smooth face. I turned back to Ann hastily, wondering whether Tony had heard my outburst. And if he had, did he know it concerned him? Then another worry grabbed me.

“I hope the customers don’t realize I was talking about Tony,” I whispered urgently to Ann.

“It’s not a crime to eat at McDonald’s,” she whispered back, her whisper belying her words.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “But to the people eating here, it might be an incentive to spend their money somewhere else.”

Ann began twirling her hair again. “Sorry,” she said.

“No problem,” I assured her in a voice far more cheerful than I felt. “Anyway, it’s not your fault.” Tony at McDonald’s? I was still reeling. “But back to your new sweetie,” I said with what I hoped sounded like heartfelt interest.

We discussed Ann’s new man through the rest of our meal and a pot of blackberry tea. He sounded wonderful, but my thoughts kept whirling back to Tony’s guilty secret.

Tony thanked us graciously for the visit as we left. I pretended not to notice the tension in his face.

I called Barbara as soon as I got home. “I’m going over to Nick’s for dinner tonight,” I told her.

“The loony sculptor?” she said incredulously. Her voice was filled with concern. “Are you going alone?”

“No, not exactly,” I mumbled defensively. “Do you remember Ellen, the graveside comedienne? She
and
Nick invited me.”

“What’s their connection?” Barbara demanded.

“Romantic, I think. Ellen seems to be taking over with Nick where her sister Sarah left off.”

“Ah,” Barbara murmured thoughtfully. “They might make a good couple. I wonder what their signs are. She’s got to be a Taurus—”

I took a deep breath and interrupted her. “I told Ellen I might bring you with me.”

“But I can’t go tonight,” Barbara objected. “I’m facilitating a Kundalini workshop.”

“That’s all right,” I assured her, ignoring the way my stomach was tightening. “I just want them to know that someone else knows that I’m going to be there.”

“I understand,” she said. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was smiling. “Dinner for three, hold the blunt object.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Be careful anyway, kiddo,” she warned. The concern in her tone scared me. When a psychic worries about you, there may be a good reason.

“So what else did you call about?” she asked.

“What makes you think there’s something else?” I demanded.

“I can hear it in your voice,” she explained. Some explanation. Psychics!

“Tony,” I said, giving in.

“Tony is very centered, very well-grounded,” Barbara responded quickly. “He’d probably be a dynamite healer.” She paused. “So what’s he done that you’re so worried about?”

“A friend of mine saw him eating at McDonald’s,” I whispered.

Laughter sang over the phone line. After fifteen minutes, Barbara had almost convinced me that eating Big Macs was not a secret to kill for, even if you did own a vegetarian restaurant.

A few hours of paperwork later, I stepped carefully up the overgrown pathway to Nick’s house wondering for the four hundredth time if I should be going to dinner with two murder suspects. A big grey cat came tearing out of the undergrowth, ended up almost at my feet, gave me a startled look as I jumped, then turned and scrambled down the path. I reminded myself just what it was that killed the proverbial cat. I stifled a groan and finished the walk to Nick’s front door.

“Hey, how’s the detective lady?” Ellen greeted me as she opened the door. She gave me a bear hug, then released me. She was wearing a loose embroidered linen blouse over her jeans. Her hair was loose, too, and I thought I detected new makeup. She was looking far more attractive than she had the day of the funeral, living proof that big can be quite beautiful. She motioned me into the hall.

“I don’t know how Miss Marple is,” I answered flippantly, walking in. “She’s the only ‘detective lady’ I know.” I wanted to squelch the detective reputation, though it was probably too late. I noticed a new picture on the wall in the hallway, a blowup of the Golden Gate Bridge. Ellen’s work, I guessed. “My friend Barbara couldn’t make it, but she sends her regards,” I added quickly.

“I suppose you’ve left her with a sealed letter, explaining your suspicions and conclusions, to be opened at the time of your untimely death,” Ellen said. Her large body rippled with laughter.

I forced myself to smile. I wasn’t about to tell her that I had considered doing just that.

Ellen was still chuckling when she asked, “So what was all the fuss about where Nick and I were Monday morning?”

“Someone else died,” I explained brusquely.

Ellen stopped chuckling.

“Who?” she demanded.

“Jerry Gold, Sarah’s gardener,” I answered, watching her closely as I did.

The confidence seemed to drain from her body, leaving her looking stooped and old. She stared down at the space between us, unseeing.

“It’s not over, is it?” she asked in a small voice.

“No,” I told her. I hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from Ellen. What was she thinking? Was she afraid that Nick was the murderer? Before I could ask her what was going on, she straightened her shoulders and came back to life. She even smiled again.

“Enough of death,” she said, her tone a bit too hearty to believe. “I’m on vacation.” She pointed a thumb toward the kitchen. “Nick’s been really sweating to do you up a vegetarian meal,” she said in a lowered voice. “He’s really trying, right? He’s a good kid.”

“What’s with you and—”

A loud clanging interrupted me. It was followed by some assorted thumps and bangs.

“Does he need to do all that to cook?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s not Nick,” Ellen told me. “That’s Vivian, your crazy cleaning lady.” Ellen tapped the side of her head with a finger. “Vivian called Nick and asked if he needed any cleaning done, right? So he agreed. She offered him some good rates.”

“She did?” That didn’t sound like Vivian at all.

“Cheaper than she charges you, I’ll bet,” Ellen said.

“Probably,” I agreed. Something crashed in the next room. “Is Vivian mad or something?” I asked in a whisper.

“Maybe you oughta ask her,” Ellen suggested.

Vivian stomped into the hallway on cue. “What are
you
doing here?” she snarled as she came toward us. Her eyes looked strange, wide and unfocused, more than just drunk. I could see why Ellen had called her “crazy.”