A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (14 page)

- Fifteen -

It was easy to see where the argument was coming from. The man with the gun peeking out of his pocket was the Growth imperatives guy in the blue suit and red tie. The man who had him in a hammerlock was Ray Zappa.

“Hey, I gotta permit, okay?” the Growth guy objected. His voice was stringy and congested now.

He didn’t seem to be struggling, though. It may have had to do with the position of Ray’s arms, one across the man’s throat and the other jerking his arm behind his back. If Ray jerked much harder he’d break the man’s arm. I’d learned that much when I worked in the mental hospital. The man’s face was getting red, too red, verging on purple. But then so was Ray’s.

“Doesn’t explain why you’re carrying a gun here!” Ray shouted, not loosening his hold. In fact, he seemed to be tightening it.

I was beginning to sympathize with the Growth Imperatives man. Thug or not. Did he have to explain his gun? I thought that was what the permit was about. But Ray just kept increasing the pressure on his arm and throat. The noise level in the room plummeted as everyone watched what was going on.

“Un-cool,” came a new voice from my side. I whipped my head around.

It was Sky-Guy, of course. Cowboy hat, braid and all. But I agreed with him. It was un-cool. I even thought of intervening, but rejected the idea. I’d only make the situation worse.

“Guns stun, thunder asunder,” Sky-Guy declared softly. “No function, no compunction, stunning isn’t cunning…”

Sky-Guy’s words drifted away from my ears as a couple of hard-looking men moved in on Ray and the Growth guy. More Growth Imperatives men? No, I realized as they flashed badges.

“Golden Valley P.D.,” one announced.

“We’ll take it from here,” the other one said and gently pulled the Growth Imperatives man away from Ray Zappa the way you might take a favorite toy away from a two-year-old.

The man from Growth Imperatives was led toward the door, a Golden Valley policeman on each side of him. He sputtered about his permit and his rights, but even his sputters sounded relieved. Ray Zappa, on the other hand, looked angry and frustrated. Tessa approached him with a glass of something that might have been wine. He downed it in one gulp. She put her hand on his arm and began whispering in his ear as a procession began to form behind the three men leaving.

Chief Woolsey and Officer Fox were first in line behind them. Then Park Ranger Yasuda. And Felix. And a whole bunch of people who must have been media. Notebooks and microphones began sprouting like a fast-spreading mold. The noise level rose again to a massive braying as the air filled with the varied scents of the bloodhounds.

Everyone seemed to be leaving. Not really, but enough of the crowd was gone in those few moments so that you could breathe in that huge room. Finally.

It wasn’t until then that I turned back to look for Diana. But she was gone. Completely. Maybe she’d crawled under the buffet table. Even Sky-Guy was gone.

But Wayne wasn’t.

He came up from behind me as I was gazing up, hypnotized, at the golden light streaming down from the ceiling. I never saw him. I just heard him from my golden trance.

“Let’s go,” he growled in my ear.

And once my heart climbed back down from where it had lodged in my esophagus, we did.

Even at that, it took us a mild forever to traverse the room, saying our goodbyes to Nathan and Emma and Yvonne and all the rest who were left. We’d just made it out the door when I noticed that Perry Kane was exiting in front of us with Ona. And he was limping.

“Did you see Perry’s limp?” I asked Wayne excitedly as we huffed and puffed the mile of blacktop back to my Toyota.

“Perry’s always limped, from the first day,” Wayne informed me. He took another breath for the hike. “He had polio as a child.”

“What?” I objected. I stopped in my tracks, panting. “But I never noticed.”

“Perry told me about it the first day of class. Said it was one of the disadvantages of not being born in the United States.”

“Oh,” was all I said for the rest of the mile. But only because I’d run out of oxygen.

Ten minutes into our drive back in the Toyota, it was a different story. I had my breath back. And my spirit. I told Wayne all about how I’d accosted Diana. When he didn’t say much in reply, I just figured he was impressed with my report.

“So then she starts going on about what a ‘mess’ the whole thing is,” I babbled on. “But what does she mean by a ‘mess’? That she killed Sam herself? Or that she was threatened? Or maybe she’s protecting someone else. Like Nathan? Or Liz? But then why would she be so obvious?” I stopped for a quick thought break. Far too quick a thought break.

“Though I bet if she
was
threatened she’d cave. She’s such a wuss—”

“Kate,” Wayne interrupted gently. “Did it ever occur to you that she might be protecting us?”

“Huh?” I replied. Translation: No.

“The cockroach on the door,” Wayne reminded me. “And I told Gary that Ray Zappa’s not happy about our investigation. Gary may have asked her to call it off.”

“But—” I sputtered.

“And he may be right,” Wayne went on quietly, but inexorably. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator; I knew I didn’t want to hear what was coming next. “This whole thing
is
a mess. None of our business. Haven’t garnered a single clue so far as I can tell—”

“And you’re going to let that stop you?” I demanded. I had to say something or crash into the back of the slow moving car in front of us. Or just explode.

“Yes,” Wayne answered.

“Yes?” I parroted. “What about us being a team? What about it being about Sam, not Diana anymore? What about—”

“Kate, it’s dangerous,” Wayne insisted. “Maybe to you. I forgot that for a while, but I remembered today. You mean a lot more to me than Sam Skyler. You shouldn’t be involved in this—”

“But it’s fine for you—”

“I didn’t say that,” he cut in sullenly.

But he meant it, I was sure.

Wayne would keep looking into things in secret so he wouldn’t involve me. Well, so would I. Mentally I crossed my arms. I’d be careful, but I wasn’t going to be scared off any more than he was.

Wayne sighed as if he’d heard me.

“Kate, I love you,” he explained when we finally pulled into our driveway.

The words were nice, but his voice was too high as he spoke them.

“Well, I love you too,” I pointed out. And somehow my words were exasperated too.

So we hugged when we got through our front door. Because exasperated or not, the words were true. And then we let the subject of Sam Skyler’s murder die a natural death.

Wayne fixed us a quick lunch, then told me he had some work to do in the city and left. I didn’t even ask him if the work involved his restaurant or Sam Skyler.

I looked at my watch. It was after two o’clock. I approached the stacks of Jest Gifts paperwork on my desk carefully, and abruptly the image of the guy in the polka dot tie at the reception popped into my mind. He obviously had something to do with publishing Sam’s new book,
Higher Self Help.
Just what had Sam written in that manuscript? Talk about a safe place to hide clues. If Sam’s work had been the least bit autobiographical, and I had a feeling a man like Sam Skyler couldn’t resist the autobiographical, it might be loaded with clues. Damn. What if he was killed because of something in that book? Now I was really agitated. I marched across the room with C.C. following me in lockstep, yowling.

But I needed a name for the polka dot tie man. Not to mention a phone number. I marched back across the room to the phone and punched the number of the Institute, hoping Nathan would be there. But he wasn’t. And he wasn’t at his home number either. But Martina Monteil was at her home number. And surprisingly enough, she was agreeable to an afternoon meeting, an immediate afternoon meeting at her home. I’d work up to the name and number of the polka dot tie man subtly, I decided. After a nice long talk with the woman who was the clear successor to the throne of the Skyler Institute For Essential Manifestation, Nathan Skyler or no Nathan Skyler.

Twenty minutes later, I parked my Toyota in the visitors’ lot in front of Martina’s condo in Larkspur.

“Kate, how are you?” Martina asked, her voice deep with what sounded like genuine concern as she opened the door to her living room. She stared down into my eyes from her near six feet of model’s perfection, her own hazel eyes widening as if in fascination.

“Fine, fine,” I replied, looking off to the side, embarrassed by her intensity. Martina’s condo was clean, white, and crisp. And loaded with success books. I saw
Swimming With the Sharks, Winning Through Intimidation,
and Trump’s
The Art of the Deal
on the nearest shelf. Along with
Grief Into Growth.

Martina stepped away from the doorway and touched my shoulder lightly as I entered her living room, murmuring something about a seat. The touch seemed caring, too caring. What did she want?

I glanced up quickly and caught a slight narrowing of the eyes that didn’t quite match her voice.

“Nathan and I were appalled by Ray Zappa’s behavior today,” she said. I could have soaked in the warmth of her tone, like soaking in a hot bath. I gave myself a little shake and felt imaginary droplets fly. “And you and your Wayne so unstoppable in your search for the truth, in your search for the real core issues…”

I hardly remembered sitting on her clean beige sofa as she continued. All I could seem to see was the movement of her gleaming white teeth as she spoke. Swimming with the sharks, indeed.

“So what have you learned?” she asked quietly, bending forward, the intensity in her hazel eyes like a penlight now.

“Not much,” I mumbled. Wayne had been right on that score. “Sam Skyler was loved by some people and hated by others. But we don’t know why he was killed. Or who killed him.”

Martina sat back in her easy chair, the look of concern instantly gone from her eyes. Of course, she wanted information. That’s why she’d agreed to see me. But she was a narcissist-exhibitionist too, I reminded myself. I ought to be able to hold her attention with a show of my own interest.

I
bent forward now.

“You’re so much like Sam,” I murmured, my eyes on hers. They widened again. My mind searched for the buzzwords that would move her. “Your energy, your presence.”

Martina Monteil smiled my way, a real smile this time?

“When you speak, I can almost see Sam again,” I went on shamelessly.

She brought her hand out from her heart. “Thank you, Kate,” she said and dropped her eyes modestly for a moment. “I feel Sam’s essence with me daily now. His gift. I only hope I can carry on for the Institute.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” I told her. And I wasn’t lying. “You have the charisma.” I held my breath for a second and took a guess, “And the backing from the Growth Imperatives group.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, uncharacteristically slamming a hard fist into her palm. The tension went out of my body. My guess was on the mark.

“The people from Growth Imperatives, Unlimited are real power people,” she enthused. Not only had I guessed right, I’d pushed her button. She was on now. “They can pump in real money. We can make the Institute an unstoppable force.” She straightened her back. “Personal genius can be duplicated. I’ve proved that already with Sam. We could have branches all over the United States. The movement would be explosive.
Will
be explosive!”

“How does Nathan feel about that?” I asked as gently as possible.

Martina frowned, but only for a moment.

“Nathan is a very sweet boy, but he lacks the monumental insight his father had,” she replied. “Still, he’s beginning to understand what I could do with the Institute. He’s beginning to understand the incredible possibilities.” She leaned back in her chair. “Even Diana has begun to understand. But she’s so…so…”

I could see the struggle in Martina’s face as she tried not to say anything negative about Diana. The Institute was about positivism too, after all.

“Wimpy,” I supplied for her.

“Yes, wimpy,” she agreed, molding her expression into concern again. “I’m afraid not all of us are manifesting at the same rate. Dynamism can be taught, but the energy has to be there. And Diana…” She shook her head.

“Slow manifestation material,” I suggested.

Martina nodded, then pointed behind me.

“See those trophies,” she ordered, her face suddenly serious in a way that seemed more real than all the other expressions she’d worn.

I turned and did see them, a whole mantelpiece of trophies I hadn’t noticed before. A brass figurine shaped like a mermaid swam out of the granite base of the middle one.

“I could have been an Olympic swimmer,” she announced. “But my parents lacked the vision. To them, making a living was enough. A house in the burbs mortgaged to the hilt. They couldn’t see any further.” Anger tensed the muscles in Martina’s face, real outward anger. She didn’t need a finger puppet to access it now.

“I almost made it,” she went on, her voice low and fast. “Almost. I kept my grades up and swam every day. I would have swum every minute if I could have. But my parents owned a dry-cleaning shop and expected me to help out in the afternoons and on the weekends. They thought I would never make the Olympics, no matter what my coach told them. They thought it was all a dream.”