Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (10 page)

“I
am
the attorney,” she replied. Strike one for Kate. She saw my look and laughed.

“People often think I’m the receptionist. And, yes, I am awfully young, but I’m good, too! What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to ask you some questions about Sarah Quinn.”

Her eyes narrowed, becoming less friendly, but she didn’t kick me out. She invited me into her inner office. She had made the best of the low-ceilinged room. The cream-colored walls were decorated with Japanese silk hangings that complemented the simple teak furniture.

“Now, just who are you, and what do you want to know about Sarah?” she asked in a cool voice once I was seated.

“I’m Kate Jasper,” I replied. “I’m a friend of Sarah’s.” There was no reaction from the attorney. “From her study group,” I added.

“And?” she prompted.

“There were a couple of things…” I faltered. “You do know she’s dead, don’t you?” I asked anxiously.

“Yes, I know,” she replied. Her eyes narrowed further.

“I’m looking into her death, kind of,” I squeaked. I made an effort to lower my voice. “I wanted to confirm the contents of her will,” I finished.

“Do you think you’re in her will?” she demanded, a look of disgusted comprehension crossing her face. Strike two.

“No, no!” I assured her. “I just wanted to know what was in it.”

“Ahead of everyone else, I suppose.” She clicked her tongue. “Have you ever heard of confidentiality?” she asked, enunciating each syllable of the last word separately. I squirmed in my seat. Strike three.

“Confidentiality, oh sure,” I said. I looked into her glaring eyes. “Maybe we can start this conversation over again,” I suggested hopefully. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to Sarah, sort of investigating, you know.” Her eyes softened a bit as I babbled. “I guess there’s not a lot I can ask you that won’t run into the confidentiality problem?”

“Probably not. Sorry about that,” she said. She was smiling politely, but I knew I was definitely out.

“I won’t take up any more of your time, then.” I got up and walked to the door. At the door I turned to ask one more question. “Have you ever visited Sarah’s house?”

“No, I haven’t! Come and see me if you ever want to hire an attorney.” She ostentatiously broke eye contact and bent her head over the papers on her desk.

I dragged my feet up the carpeted stairs to the next floor, wondering if I really had what it took to sleuth. Donald Simpson’s door was standing wide open. Unlike Ms. Jackson, he had not made the most of his single-room office. There was paper strewn over every available surface. Computer printouts, ledger sheets and long curls of adding machine tape covered desk, couch, shelves and most of the floor.

As far as I could see there was no human form visible. I sighed and turned to leave. Then I heard a grunt from behind the desk.

- Seven -

My perception shifted instantly when I heard that grunt. Where I had only seen disorder before, I now saw the signs of a ransacked office. My adrenaline began to flow. Was that the grunt of a man returning to consciousness after a brutal beating? I stepped quickly toward the desk and cautiously peered over.

Lying prone in a great nest of paper was a short, middle-aged man. As I looked at him, he opened his eyes. They were small, dark eyes set closely together over a disproportionately large nose and dark luxurious mustache. He blinked and sprang up, extending his chubby body to its full five feet.

“A little cat nap, great thing for the mind. Donald Simpson,” he introduced himself, sticking out his hand abruptly.

After an involuntary jump backwards onto slippery computer printouts, I remembered my manners and shook his hand. He energetically denuded a chair of its pile of papers and motioned me to sit down. He likewise sat, in his own chair, but without bothering to remove the paper which cushioned it. He kept his eyes fastened on mine as he began a lecture on the value of napping as opposed to sleeping. Midstream he asked, “Did I have an appointment with you?”

“No, I… I’m a friend of Sarah Quinn’s,” I said, startled by the sudden question. I could feel my eyes rapidly blinking under his intense stare. Then I remembered Vivian telling me this guy believed you could spot aliens because they didn’t blink. I hoped I had proven myself a human life form to his satisfaction.

“Ah, Sarah,” he sighed. “Terrible thing about Sarah.” He shook his head sadly. “Good mind, that woman had. The best! Kept all her records and documents on her computer. She’d bring me her floppies at the end of the month. Really understood the value of the computer as a tool—”

“Did you ever get to see Sarah’s computer?” I asked, cutting into his discourse.

“Never had the pleasure,” he replied, then rattled on blithely. “A robot of hers delivered some floppies here once. Knew it was Sarah’s doing ‘cause I could hear her giggling out in the hall. Great little robot, but you never know about robots.” He paused and frowned, his eyes leaving mine momentarily. “But, still, Sarah was straight. Sure going to miss that woman.” His eyes returned to mine. He had a questioning look on his face. Did he realize I had never told him the purpose of my visit?

“Well, I’ve certainly enjoyed talking to you,” I said, getting up out of my chair. I leaned forward and shook his hand briskly. He smiled automatically and escorted me to the door. I could hear him tapping on his computer keyboard as I walked back down the hall.

Once I had descended the stairway, I asked myself what I had gained by my last two interviews. Neither Sarah’s attorney nor her accountant had admitted to having visited her house. Then again, why should they tell the truth? I could see why Sarah had chosen these two professionals for backup, though. Simpson must have matched her own untidy love affair with computers, and Jackson’s “I’m good, too,” would have touched her positive-thinking spirit.

A glance at my watch told me it was two o’clock, time to go shopping for Nick Taos. Guiltily, I realized I hadn’t called in to the Jest Gifts warehouse yet that day. I found a public telephone in the lobby and remedied the oversight.

My warehousewoman, Judy, assured me everything was “cool.” There were no problems with the manufacturers, no problems with the mail orders, and the inventory remained stable. This was not always the case. Not only did whole boxes of stock occasionally disappear, but sometimes they were even transformed. One hundred Freudian Shrink-Proof T-shirts had once turned overnight into fifty attorney’s Faw-law-law Christmas mugs. Go figure. That day, however, everything was disconcertingly right at the warehouse.

I didn’t have to go far to find the nearest Safeway. There was one right across the street from the office building. If my entree to Nick Taos involved the purchase of mass quantities of forbidden foods, I was ready. I loaded Mallomars, double-chocolate ice cream, Pop Tarts, candy bars, frozen cheesecake, Hostess pies and Coca-Cola into my cart. As I reached for the root beer, I considered the possibility that Nick was both a guilty murderer and a diabetic, and was arranging his own execution.

I chuckled the thought away and went to the meat department for hamburger and bacon. I’ve been told bacon is the consummate toxin, combining meat, fat, sugar, salt and nitrites. I grabbed three packages anyway, and six pounds of hamburger, before continuing my rounds. I zipped through the rest of Nick’s list, picking up mayonnaise, potato chips and Wonder Bread. I laid one vegetable, iceberg lettuce, on the top of the pile and made my way to the checkout counter. I couldn’t look the checker in the eye.

He picked up on my embarrassment immediately. “Planning a little binge, are we?” he smirked.

“It’s for a friend,” I replied with dignity.

“Uh-huh,” he drawled. “I’ve heard that one before. Enjoy yourself.”

I slunk out of Safeway, fat and glucose in hand, and drove to Nick’s house.

The yard in front of his house was grown over with lush vegetation. Ivy and berry vines covered the fence and the trunks of the trees. Dandelions, buttercups and forget-me-nots poked their petals through the overgrowth. The path through the leaves, stickers and vines was barely discernible. Obviously, Sarah had never loaned him her gardener. It did make sense, if the man never left the house. I was curious what the neighbors thought of the place. I made a mental note to visit them on some pretext.

My Reeboks crunched the vegetation as I carried my two bags of offerings down the jungle path to Nick’s door.

Once there, I dropped the bags and pushed the doorbell. I didn’t hear it ring, though. I waited in the silence for a little while. Then I banged on the door with my fist. I wasn’t in the mood for subtlety. The groceries were heavy, not to mention expensive. A curtain was pulled back from a window. Then the door opened.

The man who looked out the doorway left me gaping. This guy was breathtakingly handsome! He was about six and a half feet tall, exquisitely proportioned, with muscular arms peeking out of his shirt that made me want to see other parts peeking out. And on top of his body was a strong well-formed head with clear, blue-grey eyes. He reminded me of a picture I’d seen of Tom Selleck on the cover of
People
magazine. Most people this handsome were in the movies. When he spoke, I remembered why he wasn’t.

“Are you Kate?” he bawled. “What’d you bring me?”

“Groceries,” I answered briefly. The combination of that voice with that body was a cruel cosmic joke.

“Let me bring in this stuff for you,” I suggested. I didn’t intend to end up just passing groceries over the threshold. I wanted to get inside the house for a little chat.

“I guess so,” he mumbled uncertainly. At least his volume was somewhat modulated.

He stepped back from the doorway and shifted his weight onto one leg, pulling the other leg up and tucking his foot behind his knee. There he stood, looking like a muscular stork. I picked up the bags and pushed past him. He didn’t object. Nor did he offer to help. Or to pay me for the groceries for that matter. He just watched from his stork pose as I hauled the bags down the hall into the kitchen.

“How would you like a root beer?” I asked him once I had disposed of the bags. I used the voice I had developed working in a mental hospital. It’s the voice most people use with children.

“Okay!” he bellowed. I tried not to wince. He brought his foot down from behind his knee and bounded toward me. Suddenly I remembered something else from my mental hospital days. Big and stupid can be dangerous. My neck prickled. Nick was sure big. Was he stupid? Worse yet, was he crazy?

“I’ll have some tea myself,” I squeaked as he came to a stop two feet in front of me. “I’ve brought some herbal.” I took a deep breath and sat down at the kitchen table.

“I have some herbal tea, too!” Nick announced loudly and eagerly. “Here on the shelf, it’s Sarah’s.” He grabbed a box of tea in his oversized paw and waved it triumphantly in front of me. “Mellow Mint,” he read carefully from the label.

“Great,” I said.

“I’ll boil the water,” he offered. A tearful look passed over his face as he banged the kettle onto the stove. My fear dissolved. It was a good bet he was thinking of Sarah. Poor guy.

“May I call you Nick?” I asked gently.

“Sure, if you want!” he bellowed back. I jumped in my seat. How the hell had Sarah stood his loud enthusiasm? He lowered his voice to the level of a Marine drill sergeant and went on. “Nick Taos is the name Sarah gave me. She said it was a spiritual name and was more descriptive of my ‘artistic essence.’ She said it might sell my sculptures better. I kinda like it now.”

“What’s your old name?” I asked.

“Herb Smith!” His answer shook the room. He smiled broadly as he sat down across from me. “I was named after my uncle. He got real rich in the linoleum business. I liked him a lot. He died a couple of years ago.” The smile disappeared. “It seems like everyone I really love dies.”

“You know
Sarah
wouldn’t just ‘die,’ “ I said, feeling a need to reassure him. “Look at it this way, she’s been… well… transformed.”

His eyes were tearing over. Time for a story, I decided, my mental hospital skills coming in handy once more. I thought fast.

“A long time ago there were these two caterpillars who were very, very good friends,” I began in my best once-upon-a-time voice. Nick cocked his head to listen.

“One was a girl caterpillar, and one was a boy caterpillar. They played during the day and slept soundly at night.” A smile touched Nick’s face. I had him. I cut to the bad news. “Then the girl caterpillar went into her cocoon. The boy caterpillar thought she had died and was very sad. He cried and cried. But then, after a little while, a miracle happened. His friend came fluttering out of the cocoon as a butterfly.” Nick’s eyes widened. “The boy caterpillar was filled with joy at the transformation. He waved happily as she flew away, knowing one day he would follow. And in the meantime he played during the day and slept at night as happy as—”

Nick let out a wail like an air raid siren. Then he put his gorgeous head in his huge hands and wept loud and long. So much for cheering him up. But as I watched him weep, I found myself wishing that I could cry as cleanly as he did. Maybe it was for the best.

“You tell stories like Sarah!” he bawled out finally. He gulped loudly a few times and went on. “I know Sarah is probably okay, but I’m so lonely. I don’t know what to do.”