A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (15 page)

- Sixteen -

I’d manifest my feelings in an appropriate way, all right! As I took the highway on-ramp home I imagined my puppet-less fingers around Martina Monteil’s swanlike neck and squeezed the steering wheel. Hard. But not hard enough to stop the burning in my face. Or the burning in my veins. And I hadn’t even gotten the name of the polka-dot-tie man! Or his number.

Was Martina really a psychologist? And just what had she meant by “I didn’t have to,” when I asked if she’d killed Sam? That she was already better than Sam as a master hypnotist, or whatever the hell she was? Or that she knew someone else would eventually kill the man? Someone specific?

Did she know who that someone was? Was it Martina herself?

The steering wheel wasn’t answering my questions. It hadn’t even begun to crack. I let up on the pressure and tried to think as a red Mercedes passed me in a puff of diesel.

Was Martina really the murderer? I wanted to think so, I realized. And that was affecting my judgment. But she did have motive. And an intensity of ruthlessness that made goose bumps jump up on my arms again, just remembering.

But so did Nathan have a motive. And Ona. And Diana.

Diana as murderer. I let out a little contented sigh. The thought was almost as appealing as casting Martina in that role. But just because Diana was young and beautiful and manipulative wasn’t enough for a murder conviction. Not quite. And just because Martina Monteil had embarrassed me in front of the reporters didn’t make her a killer either.

I punched the steering wheel with one hand. I needed more information. And then I remembered that there was one person I hadn’t talked to. One person Wayne hadn’t talked to either. Sam’s mother, Irene Skyler. I wished for the hundredth time that I had a car phone. I’d have to stop at home to call if I wanted to visit Irene Skyler. Somehow, despite her apparent lack of concern over her son’s death, I didn’t think that dropping in unannounced on a bereaved mother on the day of her son’s memorial service was quite the thing to do.

So I drove home and called. And Irene Skyler told me to come on over. As long as I could make it quick. She wanted to go to the racetrack soon.

Irene’s house was art deco beautiful and located on prime waterfront property in Sausalito. I doubted if she’d earned the mortgage at the track. My guess was that the pale mauve building I was looking at was an example of Sam Skyler’s legendary generosity.

I pushed the doorbell and heard not only ringing, but chirping and cawing and scrawing as well.

When Irene opened the door I saw the reason for some of the noise. Irene was still wearing her miniskirt. Her black bouffant hair was still done up in its elaborate French roll with the loose tendrils softening the wrinkles of her forehead. But something new had been added to her ensemble: a parakeet on one shoulder and a parrot on the other.

“Scree-scraw,
a real winner,” the parrot greeted me.

“Are you Kate?” Irene added in her carrying voice.

“That’s me, Kate Jasper, a real winner,” I answered them both.

“Whooee, you’re a stitch!” Irene cawed, slapping her leg just above her hemline. The parrot just squawked.

I sure hoped my legs would look that good when I reached whatever year she was celebrating. I took her to be around seventy, because for all her makeup, and there was plenty of mascara and crimson plastered on, I could still see the age in her face.

“A stitch in time,” I offered.

That elicited another caw and a screech. And got me inside the house, where I saw the rest of the noisemakers. And smelled them. There must have been close to ten or fifteen cages lining the walls of Irene’s living room, with noises coming from all of them. I saw parakeets, mynas, toucans, and parrots, their intense colors a moving counterpoint to the flashy artwork and brightly colored sofas.

Irene made kissy noises at the cages and then at the birds on her shoulders as we sat down.

“Thought we might talk a little about Sam,” I finally shouted over the cacophony.

“Friend of Sam’s?” Irene inquired back, just as loudly. Now I knew, why she had that carrying voice. She had to, to make herself heard in her aviary.

I nodded, wondering if nodding counted as lying.

“Friends of Sam have been dropping over ever since the memorial,” she told me. “Kinda strange service, but my Sam was always into some weird thing or another. Real go-getter, my Sam. Took good care of his ol’ ma after his pa died.”

“How did Sam’s father die?” I asked, suddenly curious.

“Of holiness, I guess,” Irene answered and laughed at her own line, slapping her leg again.

“Whooee!” the parrot added.

I smiled encouragingly and Irene went on. She wasn’t hard to jump-start.

“Honey, my husband was an impossible man, and I mean impossible! Never wanted to have a good time. He was so damn holy he got booted out of his last church. That much sanctimony can be a pain in the rear even to parishioners.”

I shook my head in sympathy and wondered how she’d acted in those days. Hadn’t Sam’s ex-wife, Helen, said something about this woman being “beat down”? I was having a hard time imagining it right now. Something screeched behind me as if in agreement.

“Sam was no Holy Roller, at least,” she added. And for a moment I thought I saw a shadow of sadness pass over Irene Skyler’s brightly painted face. Maybe this was how she had to act to keep going. Or maybe not. “He bought me this house. I got me an annuity too. And an inheritance. Sam was a good boy. Strange, but good to his ma for sure.”

“What did you think of his Institute?” I asked.

“Whooee, that place was weird,” she answered, shaking her head.

“Whooee!” the parrot echoed.

“But I guess it made good enough money,” Irene went on. “Not quite sure what those folks thought they were getting. I went to a few of Sam’s ‘sessions.’“ She shook her head again.

“Weird?” I suggested.

“Got it in one, honey,” she agreed. “Lots better places to go for a good time, that’s for sure.” She looked down at her watch. “Like the track. There’s a pony I’ve got my eye on for this evening—”

“Scraw, caw,
a real winner,” the parrot put in. Then it whistled.

I had a feeling time was running out.

“So, Sam was about to publish another book,” I yelled.

“Yeah, some goofy kinda thing,” Irene said, her eyes taking on a distracted look. Thinking about a horse?

“There was a guy at the memorial reception, wearing a polka dot tie,” I hurried on loudly. “Was that Sam’s editor?”

“Don’t know, honey,” she replied. “Guess I didn’t follow that part of Sam’s career too well.”

I resisted telling her that was an understatement.
Whooee, honey,
it was an understatement.

“Going across the bay to Golden Gate Fields,” Irene brayed, looking at her watch again. “Don’t mean to hurry you or anything—”

I gave up and got up, wishing her good luck on the way out the door.

“Thanks, honey,” she said. “Anyway, Sam was a real good boy.”

I was feeling pretty sorry for Sam Skyler as I drove home from Sausalito. His mother hadn’t been interested in his Institute or his book. Or much besides his money, I guessed—the money that she equated with his being “a good boy.” Damn, no wonder he craved adoration, I thought as I guided my car into the driveway. I couldn’t even begin to imagine his childhood.

Mainly because a car pulled in behind me before I got a chance to. A turquoise vintage ‘57 Chevy. Felix’s car.

Scowling, I got out of the Toyota and placed my hands on my hips. Felix had a lot to answer for.

“Hey, howdy-hi,” Felix greeted me, a Cheshire cat grin on his pit bull reporter’s face as he closed his own door behind him carefully. He loved that old Chevy.

“Yeah?” I growled back, imagining Wayne’s spirit guiding me.

“Jeezus H.,” Felix replied, still smiling. Not to mention advancing on me one quick step at a time. “You’re not P.O.’d at me or anything, are you?”

“What do you think?” I snapped back, wishing I had a better answer. Something witty and cutting. “You sicced the media on us.”

“Hey,” he advised, “don’t get your hormones in an uproar. Those potato brains at the Quiero cop-shop wouldn’t have done diddlysquat on the case if someone hadn’t goosed them.”

I was about to tell Felix what I thought of his hormone crack when I suddenly wondered if he knew what the Quiero police knew. That was the problem with Felix. Just when you were ready to kill him, he usually came up with some information.

“Woolsey cares more about the friggin’ dolphins than he does about Sam Skyler,” Felix went on, his mustachioed face inches from mine now. “And—”

“And I suppose you know all about the Quiero police investigation—”

The sound of another car pulling to the curb jerked my head up. I hoped Felix hadn’t brought the rest of the media with him. Or the puppeteers, for that matter. Or the police. Not to mention the guy from Growth Imperatives.

But it was my friend Ann Rivera who got out of the blue Volvo parked by my mailbox. She gave me a wave and a toothy smile that stretched clear across her brown face. Ann ran a local mental health facility. I was glad she was here. A little mental health might be a refreshing antidote to Felix.

So after a quick exchange of greetings all around, Ann and Felix having met each other enough times to be brief, the three of us went inside. I put on a kettle for tea and brought out a loaf of homemade sesame-millet bread. And a bowl of the wonderful bread-spread glop that Wayne made out of tofu, tahini, maple, lemon, vanilla, and some other ingredients I’d never quite figured out.

“So what’s the newest scoop?” Felix asked as I sliced some bread to toast.

I’d filled him and Ann in briefly by the time tea and toast were ready and we sat down at the kitchen table. Ann had taken the most filling-in, having missed the earlier parts of the saga. But Felix made up for any preferential treatment by stuffing his face.

Even C.C. made her yowling appearance and got some Friskies Senior for her trouble.

“So who do the Quiero police think did it?” I asked after Felix had swallowed three slices of well-glopped bread.

“Campbell Barnhill,” he told us, grabbing a fourth slice.

“Oh damn,” I muttered, my hand squeezing guiltily on the teacup’s handle. Poor Campbell. I took another sip of peppermint tea. “Somehow I just can’t believe it was Campbell Barnhill. Why do the police think so?”

“No friggin’ imagination,” Felix informed me. “The guy yapped at Skyler and shook his fist, so now he’s a murderer. They don’t put Diana Atherton or Nathan Skyler much further down on their doo-doo-dunit list either.”

“Why?” I asked again, not feeling any less guilty. Wayne and I hadn’t helped Diana much, that was for sure. Whether I liked the woman or not.

“Moolah, the green stuff,” Felix answered, rubbing his fingers together. “The inheritance, remember? So who do your little gray cells think dunit?”

“Not for publication?” I said first.

“No way,” Felix promised, making a big show of crossing his heart. “What kind of lousy geek do you think I am?”

He almost lost me with his last protestation, but I answered anyway. I wanted to toss this around with someone, anyone. And Wayne wasn’t available.

“If I had to place a bet, I’d say Martina Monteil,” I told him, watching his face.

His eyes widened as he bent forward, mouth open like a fish. Now he’d press for details, I was sure.

But Ann beat him to the auditory punch.

“Martina Monteil,” she murmured tentatively. I turned her way. She was twiddling a dark curl around her finger. “I could imagine that.”

“You know Martina Monteil?” Felix and I both asked at the same time.

“Yeah, I know her,” Ann shot back. “That’s why I came over. I took a Skyler Institute seminar last fall. I met Sam Skyler. And Nathan Skyler. And Martina Monteil.” She chuckled. Both Felix and I had our mouths hanging open now. I shut mine on a piece of bread. Lemon and vanilla flavors filled my mouth. Maybe orange rind too, I guessed. “I talked to Barbara Chu this morning,” Ann went on, “and she said you and Wayne might like to hear my impressions—”

“My sweetie, Barbara!” Felix objected, rising halfway from his chair. “My Barbara told you to tell Kate and Wayne. Not me, her doll-baby, pumpkin-pie, sweet-lips—”

“She said to talk to you too,” Ann assured him gently. And just in the nick of time. I didn’t want to hear another one of Barbara’s endearments out of Felix’s mouth. Ugh.

Felix sat back down, smiling again. No wonder. Now he had another informant.

“Martina had an ambitious streak the size of the Skyler Institute For Essential Manifestation,” Ann offered. “Both she and Sam struck me as narcissists, but at least Sam seemed to care. But Martina…” She shook her head. “Talk about dysfunctional.”

“Is Martina a psychologist?” I mumbled through bread and spread.

“I don’t think so,” Ann said. “At least it didn’t say so in any of their promotional materials.”

Huh! I thought.