Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (18 page)

I planned my interrogation as we drank our herbal tea. But before I could begin, our waitress brought over one of the customers who just
had
to speak to Tony personally.

“I hate to interrupt you,” the woman whispered urgently. “But you have ants crawling on the floor.”

“Yes, I know,” Tony replied quietly. “But we wouldn’t want to kill them, would we? So we’ll just have to share our space with them for the time being.”

“Uh, well, I guess so,” she mumbled and toddled off in confusion.

“Everyone’s after me to kill those ants,” he told me, shaking his head unhappily. “But I’d have to use pesticide. I just couldn’t.” This was the man I was suspecting of murder? I reminded myself that ants were not people and plunged in.

“Tony, remember the last study group when Sarah said she knew your secret. What was she talking about?”

He was silent for a moment, his brows lowered in confusion. Then recognition filled his eyes and he blushed.

“She was just trying to get my goat, Kate,” he muttered. “And she did. But I’m not going to talk about it.”

I just sat and stared at him, hoping to wear down his resistance.

“I could make up something,” he said after a few minutes of this torture. “Then you would think you had it. But I’d rather be honest. Okay?” His round blue eyes looked beseechingly out of his open face.

“Okay,” I sighed, giving in. “But I really do have a reason for asking.” He just continued to look forlorn. I pressed on. “Do you have a VCR?”

“Yeah,” he answered slowly, confusion evident in his face once more.

“Peter has a VCR too,” I said hurriedly. “But he’s uptight about his.”

“Peter is really okay, Kate,” Tony lectured me gently. “He’s trying so hard to be perfect that he gets a little critical. He’s actually a harsher judge of himself than he is of other people.”

I thought for a moment. “You’re probably right,” I finally agreed. I had never looked at Peter that way. “But he can sure be annoying.” I changed the subject. “Listen, are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Tony murmured. “Do you want an escort?”

“No, no,” I said. “I have a friend coming with me.” I leaned forward and whispered. “What I really wanted to ask was whether you’d come to my house on Monday evening for this seance I’m arranging.”

“What do you mean by seance?” Tony asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Well,” I began. I took a big breath. I felt so silly talking about it. “I have this friend who’s into psychic stuff,” I rattled off. “The idea is that she’ll try to get in touch with Sarah’s spirit and ask some questions. If there’s any way Sarah can answer, I’ll bet she will.”

“Yeah, she would,” said Tony, smiling reminiscently. “It’s worth a try. Sarah would love it.” Then his smile faded. “Oh, Kate,” he breathed. “Do you really think she was murdered?”

- Thirteen -

“I don’t know for certain that Sarah was murdered,” I answered carefully, adding silently that I wouldn’t take any bets against it.

Should I tell Tony about last night’s fire? It would be a relief to talk to someone who wouldn’t yell at me. I could trust him, couldn’t I?

“Tony, I… last night…” I faltered. I looked into his stricken eyes. I just couldn’t. He didn’t need any more shocks. “I don’t know,” I repeated.

Tony dropped his eyes, graciously allowing my withdrawal. We sipped our tea silently, both lost in our own anxieties. Once we were finished, we shared another long hug, and I thanked him for the meal. He told me to “take care,” and I left, ninety-nine per cent certain that Tony was incapable of murder. Then I went shopping. I had neighbors to thank.

By the time I reached home, I had deposited a magnum of champagne on the front seat of my neighbor Steve’s pickup truck, and a gigantic woven basket filled with balls of mohair-and-silk yarn on Grace’s doorstep, Easter bunny-style. I had also changed my mind about Tony. My confidence in his innocence had dropped to ninety-two per cent. When no one seems a likely candidate for murderer, the nearly impossible suspect becomes merely improbable.

The first thing I saw when I opened my front door was the blinking light on my answering machine. I approached the machine and pushed the buttons cautiously. But all the tinny speaker produced was an invitation from Craig to accompany me to Sarah’s funeral. I slumped into my comfy chair. Why hadn’t
Wayne
called?

I didn’t have the time for a major moan-and-whine break. I had bookkeeping to do. Even murder and arson don’t count as excuses to forgo work when you’re your own boss. I left a brief message on Craig’s machine telling him I already had an escort, then sat down at my desk and began punching the keys of my adding machine.

The doorbell rang a little before six. I switched off my adding machine and switched on my memory. It must be Felix. I wondered where he was going to take me to dinner. Since I was paying, I assumed it would be expensive.

I flung open the door with sarcasm on my lips. But Felix wasn’t on my doorstep. Wayne was. I didn’t stop to think. I just leapt toward him and caught him around the waist with the grasp of a drowning woman. He didn’t struggle. He just held me like a good lifeguard. I pressed my face against his sweatered chest, filling my lungs with his scent. Then C.C. got in the act, purring and squeezing herself in the space left between our ankles.

“Heard about the fire,” Wayne growled.

“Mrph,”
I answered into his chest.

“Barbara called,” he went on.

I loosened my grip on Wayne slightly, feeling a sudden surge of guilt that encompassed Sarah’s murder, the fire and the man with his arms around me. I hung my head.

“You’re coming to my house,” he ordered quietly.

I didn’t answer. My brain was issuing a cacophony of conflicting instructions.

“Stick with you night and day,” he promised. “No one will get to you.”

“No, I need to be here to work,” I heard myself say.

He withdrew the comfort of his arms abruptly. I looked up and saw the hurt in his face.

“It’s not just work,” I said quickly. “I need to find out who murdered Sarah. Who set my logs on fire.”

I watched his face harden into an expressionless mask.

“Would you be able to watch me talking to possible murderers without interfering?” I asked desperately. He said nothing. “Well, would you?” I demanded.

His eyes flickered ever so slightly. “Probably not,” he stated in a low, impassive voice.

He stared down at me for a few moments. “You’re too close to this,” he said finally.

I grabbed his hand. “Whoever set the logs on fire didn’t want to kill me,” I argued. “If they had, they would have torched the house.” I didn’t tell him about the warning on my answering machine.

“Kate—” he began, life and frustration back in his voice. Then he sighed. “Right,” he rumbled.

I grabbed him again. He returned my embrace tentatively. I squeezed him tighter, trying to squeeze his doubt away.

I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Wayne pushed away from me gently.

“Call me when you want my help,” he whispered and turned to leave.

As Wayne passed Felix on the stairs, C.C. gave out a long, low-pitched yowl of distress. I looked at her wonderingly. Was she finally exhibiting the fabled feline sensitivity I had heard cat lovers twitter about? She batted my leg impatiently. No, I decided. She was just hungry.

Felix pumped me as I served the evening’s KalKan. I answered all of his questions and more. I wanted what he knew about Linda Zatara in exchange. I told him all about the fire. I told him about the telephone message. I even gave him a quick tour of my charred back deck.

“Far friggin’ out,” he murmured blissfully, gazing at the remains of my log pile.

“Felix!” I protested.

“Jeez-Louise, Kate!” he shot back. “Don’t pop your tonsils.”

I closed my mouth. Should I tell him my tonsils were popped years ago? Felix took my moment of silence as an opportunity to further harangue me.

“What’s the deal here?” he demanded. “Every time I try to talk to you, you’re pricklier than a pit bull with hemorrhoids.”

“The deal,” I said slowly and carefully, “is my life.”

“Holymoly, Kate,” he muttered. His eyes widened in a show of hurt and innocence. “I didn’t torch your friggin’ wood—”

“Forget it, Felix,” I cut him off quickly. It was no use trying. You can lead a reporter to sensitivity but you can’t make him drink. “Let’s go to dinner.”

“I hope you feel better,” he murmured solicitously as we climbed into his car, a turquoise vintage ‘57 Chevy. “Watch the paint job,” he added as I slammed the door.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Felix pulled out of the driveway and onto the street carefully. I had forgotten how much he pampered his old Chevy. The sound of a car starting up behind us drew my eyes up past the pink foam dice to the rearview mirror they hung from. I leaned closer to Felix to get a good perspective. A bottle-green Jaguar was following us. Now I really
was
fine. Despite the understaffing of the Marin Sheriff’s Department, I had my guard. My own personal bodyguard, Wayne Caruso.

“So, who’d you have lunch with?” Felix asked. His tone was still solicitous. Such restraint deserved a reward.

“Tony Olberti, from the study group,” I answered. I might as well tell all. “And Peter Stromberg last night for dinner,” I added.

“Give,” he ordered, his voice thick with anticipation.

So I gave. I told him everything I could remember about the lunch and dinner conversations. Well, almost everything. I wasn’t about to hand him Tony’s mysterious secret. Or Peter’s worry about his college drug days. Anyway, I had my own question.

“So what’s the big deal about Linda Zatara?” I demanded.

“Later,” said Felix. “We’re here.”

“Here” was a few blocks from the University of Marin campus. A carved wooden sign announced “The Crepes of Wrath.” A restaurant, I hoped. Felix motioned me ahead. I pushed the door open and saw mismatched, scarred wooden tables and folding chairs. The specials were scrawled on a black chalkboard. And no one waiting tables looked over twenty-five. I took a relieved breath. A student hangout. It had to be cheap.

Felix turned to me as if he had read my thoughts. Taking lessons from Barbara, no doubt. “Hey, I’m your buddy,” he assured me. “I wouldn’t burn you for a megabucks meal.”

I was impressed. He really was on his best behavior.

“So,” he whispered. “What do you think Tony’s secret is?”

I jumped. Hadn’t I left Tony’s secret out of my debriefing? “I don’t know—” I began. Then it dawned on me. I wasn’t the informant. “Who told you about Tony?” I demanded.

Felix shrugged his shoulders and smirked.

He was saved from a demonstration of the tai chi low punch by the arrival of a young man whose name tag read “Chad, Your Host.”

Chad was browned to perfection, with long blond bangs that fell into his face. He jerked his head to flip the bangs out of his eyes and asked “How many?” in a world-weary voice.

Felix held up two fingers.

“Two,” I announced, afraid Chad couldn’t see Felix’s fingers through the bangs that had slipped back into his eyes.

Chad led us to a rickety wooden table and handed us some gloppy menus.

“Soups are minestrone and clam chowder,” he informed us drearily, then slouched away.

“Local surfer?” I guessed in a whisper.

Felix laughed. “Chad’s a concert pianist. He was a child prodigy. I did a story on him last spring.”

“Who told you about Tony?” I asked quickly, hoping to catch Felix in his informative phase.

“Not you,” Felix snapped.

“Felix,” I protested. “You don’t know Tony. No secret of his would be enough to murder over.” Felix lifted an eyebrow. “I tell you Tony is out of the running,” I insisted. Felix lifted both eyebrows. “Anyway, he wouldn’t tell me what his secret was,” I admitted.

Felix chuckled his forgiveness and looked down at his menu. I followed suit.

Crepes and more crepes. Tuna crepes, ham and cheese crepes, spinach crepes, Spanish crepes and Roman crepes. I wasn’t sure where the wrath came in. I found salads on the back of the menu. Avocado and sunflower-seed salad. Perfect. I was still full from my lunch with Tony. But I figured I was nervous enough to stuff myself anyway. Might as well stuff myself with salad.

I looked up. Felix was eyeing me speculatively. “Anything else you haven’t told me?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s your turn, Felix—” I began. A blast of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” drowned out the end of my sentence. Our table began to dance, shaking the silverware into new arrangements.

Felix tilted his head back, closed his eyes and smiled happily. So, this is why he chose the place. If there was anything he loved more than his fifties car, it was the high decibels of sixties rock ‘n’ roll.

A tall young woman with long blond hair shuffled over to our table. She was dressed in a black miniskirt and tank top. She wore it well. Her legs were long, tanned and perfect. I let loose a sigh into the music, thinking of my own white legs that hadn’t been on intimate terms with the sun for over a decade.