A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (21 page)

- Twenty-Two -

I jerked my hands away from Diana’s shoulders and stepped back guiltily.

“Oh, Kate,” she burbled.

And then she threw herself at me, like a child casting herself into a willing parent’s arms. Unfortunately, I’m not as good as Wayne at catching. And Diana wasn’t a child. At least not in size. She almost knocked me over with the unexpected move. But all those years of tai chi came in handy, allowing me to absorb the blow of her tall body and catch her before she bounced back off.

Once I had a stiff grip on the weeping yoga goddess, I led her into the house and onto the denim couch, only resisting the urge to shout at her by biting my lip hard enough that I tasted blood. She smelled of honeysuckle oil and gamy sweat, the latter scent new to my nostrils, at least on Diana’s body. Even her long black hair was mussed, strands sticking out at random from her usually smooth braid. A tingle of fear tickled my chest. What
had
happened to Diana’s mother? Was it really something serious this time? Had Liz Atherton been murdered like Sam Skyler?

But I knew I wouldn’t get an answer till Diana calmed down. So I sat and clenched my jaw as Diana continued to weep, loudly enough that even C.C. came out for a good look before turning tail and ambling away. I wished I could have followed her to lie in the dirty laundry basket, or wherever else she might have been headed. But I remained dutifully next to Diana on the denim couch until her wailing quieted into subdued sobbing.

“Could you tell me now what you wanted to say?” I asked then, as gently as I could.

“My mother!” she yelped.

I jumped back, my ears ringing. Once again, I’d forgotten how loud this woman could yell.

“What about your mother?” I persisted.

“SHE’S GOING TO KILL HERSELF!” Diana shrieked.

Luckily, this time I was far enough away that my ears weren’t blasted. But my mind was.

“Why?” I asked in a daze. The tingle of fear was a pounding now. “Why would your mother want to kill herself?”

“I don’t know!” Diana wailed.

Had Liz Atherton killed Sam Skyler after all? I hadn’t meant it seriously when I’d asked before, but now…

“All right,” I said sternly, speaking as much to myself as to Diana. “Calm down. What makes you think your mother’s going to kill herself?”

Diana’s story came out in bits and pieces, actually in wails and murmurs and yelps. And finally a coherent stream.

“There was a message on my answering machine,” she babbled. “From my mom. And she said she was going to kill herself. But that everything was going to be all right. That everything would be as it should be. She said not to worry.”

“Are you sure that’s what she said?”

“Yes!” Diana shouted.

“All right, all right,” I soothed her, as my brain spun through possibilities. If Diana was telling the truth, we had to find Liz Atherton quickly, before she carried out her threat.

Then we’d try to figure out why she wanted to kill herself. First things first. “Have you been to her house?”

“I went, but she wasn’t there, Kate. She wasn’t there. And she wasn’t at Gary’s. And she wasn’t at work. And she wasn’t at any of her friends’.”

“Where else would she go?”

“I don’t know.” Diana’s voice rose again. “I don’t know!”

But I did. At least I thought I did. The ocean bluff in Quiero. That’s it, my pounding blood answered. The same bluff where Sam Skyler had stood as we’d watched the scuba divers rise from the surf.

“Could she have gone to Quiero?” I asked, keeping my voice as soothing as morphine.

Diana’s eyes widened, wet blue saucers streaked with red.

“Yes!” she cried and jumped from the couch. “Yes, you’re right, that’s where she is. She must be.”

It was all I could do to restrain Diana’s wriggling body with one hand as I called Wayne’s number at La Fête à L’Oie with the other. I needed to call Wayne and tell him where I was going. But I didn’t want Diana driving. She’d probably go off a cliff in her car, and then I’d have two dead bodies on my conscience.

The restaurant phone was busy. I slammed it down in frustration.

“Please, Kate,” Diana begged softly. “Please. We have to stop her.”

She was right. I scribbled a quick note to Wayne, then Diana and I were out of there.

As we sprinted for the Toyota, I wished once more that I’d bought a mobile phone like everyone else.

The steel-blue sky was already beginning to shimmer with twilight as we jumped into my car. I stuck the key in the ignition, and one more theory occurred to me. What if Diana was setting me up? I looked at her panic-stricken face. No, I told myself. No. I wouldn’t even think it.

Still, I backed out of the driveway knowing that Wayne would kill me if I let this woman murder me.

The Toyota fishtailed as I took the turn onto Highway 1 leading to Quiero, thinking of the endless blacktop between us and there. What if I was wrong in my guess? Damn, I should have kept trying to call Wayne. He could have checked the other possibilities while I drove to the bluff. I pressed harder on the gas pedal.

“Has your mother ever threatened suicide before?” I asked Diana, suddenly wondering if the whole thing was a wild goose chase.

“No,” she whispered. “My mom wouldn’t threaten something she wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t feel right to her. She…she does the right thing. She believes in right and wrong, and all of that.”

The right thing. Was the right thing murder as well as suicide? But why? Liz Atherton hadn’t liked Sam Skyler, hadn’t wanted her daughter to marry him, that was clear. But would a person who believed in the right thing believe in murder? Had Wayne been on the money with his theory? Had Liz Atherton loved Sam Skyler herself and been spurned? Or—

“I think Mom might be sick,” Diana said quietly, more like the Diana I had known in tai chi, soft and sweet and spaced. “She hasn’t done her sculpture in months. And she just doesn’t feel like she’s…I don’t know…connected to me anymore. I can’t seem to touch her like I could. And she’s so tired all the time. And she keeps rubbing her head. I’ve asked her if she was ill, but she just changes the subject. What if she’s…” Diana’s voice dropped even lower. “What if she’s dying, Kate?”

“Do you think she is?” I asked back, my voice almost as low as Diana’s. Oh God, I hoped Liz wasn’t dying.

“I don’t know,” Diana answered and then she was sobbing again. Softly, though. She gulped through her sobs to speak. “Mom’s been acting strangely for months. She loves me and Gary, I know, but she’ll just run off in the middle of a conversation. And she’s so distracted. And her hair and her clothes, Kate. Neatness is important to her. Really important. She even dresses before breakfast. But she’s been going out with her hair messed up and—”

“Would she kill herself if she was dying?” I asked as blandly as I could, keeping my eyes on the road, taking the curves as fast as possible while the sky darkened ahead.

Diana snuffled awhile before answering. I wanted to take a look at her face but I couldn’t, not at the rate I was speeding. I could smell her, though, new acrid sweat over the honeysuckle scent. Fear. It was fear I was smelling. On the woman I’d thought was a goddess. I wanted to put out a hand to touch her, to comfort her, but I kept my hands on the wheel as I took the next hairpin turn.

“No,” Diana said finally. “I don’t think Mom would kill herself if she was dying. It wouldn’t feel right to her. Unless…”

“Unless what?” I demanded. Again, I wanted to look at Diana, to see what her face revealed, but I was going too fast. Way too fast. I let up a little on the gas. I had to keep control of the Toyota. Diana remained silent.

“What?” I said again. But she still didn’t answer.

And then my brain sent me another bulletin.

“Are you sure it was your mother’s voice on your answering machine?” I asked. What if it wasn’t Diana setting me up, but someone else, setting
her
up. But for what? What would a phony caller hope to elicit by such a cruel prank? Could Emma have—

“No,” Diana answered, but I could hear uncertainty in her tone. Then her voice got stronger. “No. It was Mom. No one else could sound like her.”

At least Diana was talking again.

“I remembered more of my dreams,” she added, her voice a whisper.

Dreams. This whole thing had started with Diana’s dreams. I peered out into the darkening sky, underlit by an apricot glow now. For a moment I wondered if
I
was dreaming. The shimmying of my back tires on pavement told me I wasn’t. I clamped my hands tighter on the steering wheel.

“There was a lot of violence between my parents,” Diana went on, her voice trembling. “Between my mom and dad. See, I slept in their bedroom. I remember…I remember…”

“What?” I prompted, keeping my eyes focused on the road by pure force of will.

“My father beat my mother,” she answered. “And…”

Was this what it was like to be a therapist? I wanted to reach out and pull Diana’s words from her mouth now. But I was having a hard enough time keeping the car on the road. Seconds might count. I couldn’t slow down.

So I said, “Uh-huh?” as invitingly as possible.

And it worked.

“He beat her and he beat her.” Diana’s voice was rising now, in pitch and volume. I braced myself for a blast.

But her next words were so low I couldn’t hear them over the sound of the Toyota’s rush toward Quiero.

“What did you say?” I prodded.

“I think she smothered him,” she shot back.

“She what?” I said, forgetting to moderate my tone. And then I did turn to see Diana’s face. I’d heard her words, but I couldn’t believe I’d understood them correctly. The car skidded with my sideways glance. And all my look got me was a glimpse of the face of a dreamer. A dreamer with her blue eyes wide open and unfocused. Maybe not a dreamer, I thought, maybe a madwoman. I pulled my eyes back to the road as I pulled the Toyota out of the skid, my mouth as dry as drought.

“She did it with a pillow,” Diana went on, her words as fast as the car now. “I think she couldn’t stand the beatings anymore, so she killed him. She killed him, and I saw it happen. I tried not to remember all these years, but I saw it. And I dreamed it. And dreamed it. I couldn’t help myself. I—”

“She killed your father because he beat her,” I interrupted, my own thoughts speeding now, too fast to control. “And then you told her you were going to marry Sam Skyler. A man who beat his former wife. A man who killed his former wife—”

“But Sam—”

I stopped her. “It doesn’t matter what Sam did or didn’t do, what he was or wasn’t. Not if your mother
believed
he killed his wife. Was your mother a court reporter when Skyler was being tried for murder?”

“I…I think so. She’s been a court reporter for years—”

“Did she ever mention Sam Skyler’s trial?” I breathed.

“I can’t remember.” The whine was returning to Diana’s voice. “I don’t know!”

I kept my thoughts to myself then. And kept on driving. We were nearly there. What if Liz Atherton had been a court reporter while Sam was on trial, maybe even
the
court reporter for his trial? She would have heard the rumors permeating the legal community like corruption, the rumors that Sam Skyler had killed his wife and gotten away with it. Even Ona had gotten the scuttlebutt from her bailiff boyfriend. And then Liz’s daughter decides to marry this man, a man Liz believes is a wife-beater and wife-killer, no matter what Diana says in his defense. So she decides to stop him. She believes in justice. Her own justice.

The sun had almost set as I turned onto the side road that would take us to Yvonne’s friend’s house on the bluff.

“Are you sure your mother didn’t kill Sam?” I asked, slowing down now, not absolutely sure which driveway was the one that would take us to the right house.

“I don’t know,” Diana answered, but her tears were flowing again.

Maybe I was wrong, I told myself, straining my eyes for the driveway. It had been paved, I remembered, not gravel. And on the left.

“After you told your mother about the police suspecting you, about the massage oil—” I began.

“Oh, God!” Diana cried. I felt her body jerk beside me. “Mom said she’d fix everything. That’s what she said.”

“Would your mother fix everything by confessing falsely and killing herself?” I asked, gentling my voice again.

“No, not Mom,” Diana whispered. “Not my mom. She believes in truth. In justice.”

And then I saw the driveway I was looking for in the waning light. I yanked the steering wheel to make the turn, my back wheels flying as I did, and drove as far down the pavement as I could.

I was stopped by a wooden gate. It was so dark, I almost went through it before I hit the brakes.

Diana was out of the car before me, tearing open the gate. And then we both ran alongside the house, toward the bluff, the wet cold smacking our faces.

As we rounded the corner of the house, I thought how foolish I’d feel if Liz Atherton wasn’t there. But she was. She stood straight and tall as her small body allowed and then leaned over to place something the size of her hand on the deck chair behind her. I couldn’t see what it was. But there was still enough light that I could see Liz herself as she sprinted the last long yards across the rough ground and climbed onto the two-by-four railing that guarded the length of the bluff.