A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (19 page)

- Twenty -

I stood back, out of Diana’s eardrum-blasting range. Just in time too.

“But I didn’t do it!” she screamed on. “I didn’t kill Sam. I didn’t.” And then she started sobbing again.

I stared at Wayne. He stared back. And finally we helped the weeping goddess into our house, each of us holding one arm very gently until we had guided her onto the denim couch.

Then we sat down on either side of her, acting very, very calm. At least I was just acting.

When she’d sobbed herself out for the moment—and I knew it might be only a moment—I leaned her way and quickly threw out my first question.

“What kind of evidence do the police say they have?” I asked, keeping my voice low and soothing.

“Massage oil!” she shouted, full volume.

Ouch, that was loud. I quickly drew away from her, rubbing my ringing ear. I kept forgetting her lung power.

But the volume was enough to click something in my brain. Hadn’t Felix mentioned the police finding oily hand prints on Sam’s jacket? But he’d also said that they’d found the imprints of Yvonne’s vases on his shoulder blades. That had to make the oily hand prints irrelevant. Or did it?

“I always use this massage oil on my hands,” Diana went on, her usual sweet voice lower now but still nasal and rasping. “It’s honeysuckle scented, very natural. Organic and everything—”

“And they matched that with the oil on Sam’s jacket?” I prompted.

She shot me a quick, suspicious glance. She hadn’t mentioned the jacket yet.

But then the look was replaced with one of admiration. Did she think I was finally displaying my magical powers of deduction as per her expectations?

“Yes, on the jacket, exactly,” she said, turning even further my way, putting her moist hand on mine. “But that was just because I was massaging his shoulders that day. I did it as often as I could. Sam’s shoulders were always so tight. All his empathy, I think.”

Or all his fears and ego, I thought back uncharitably. She withdrew her hand.

“But that doesn’t mean I pushed him.”

I nodded, and not insincerely. The person who’d pushed Sam Skyler had used the bottoms of Yvonne’s vases. At least that’s what I thought Felix had said. How else would the bruises have been so evident? That took force. Deadly force.

I glanced across at Wayne. We’d promised Felix not to talk about the evidence. And I didn’t want to break that promise. Diana was still a suspect in my book. She could have massaged Sam first and then pushed him with the brass vases for all we knew. One action didn’t preclude the other. But still, the Quiero police had her terrified. And probably for no better reason than to try to scare her into an admission. They were more likely to get a nervous breakdown at this point.

“The police are just trying to frighten you,” Wayne finally put in. “Don’t have enough evidence to convict.”

“Really?” she said, her saucer blue eyes ready to believe as they turned his way, her hands fluttering toward her face. I caught the scent of honeysuckle. Was she still using the oil, even now?

“Really,” he assured her.

But then her eyes filled up with tears again. She clasped her fluttering hands together and pulled them down to her lap.

“There’s more,” she told us, her words clogged but discernible. “Someone told them I was really in love with Nathan. And they’re right!” She looked at us both as if for forgiveness, one after another.

We both nodded slowly in turn. I felt like the Pope. Or half of the Pope.

“I’ve been falling in love with Nathan for months, but I didn’t want to be disloyal to Sam. I mean, I loved Sam too. He was so kind, so good with people. But I wasn’t in love anymore, I guess. But even so, how could I just drop him like that? And there was all the pressure from my mom not to marry Sam. I felt like I might just be caving in ‘cause of her. I didn’t know what to do—”

“And then Sam died,” I finished up for her. How convenient for everyone, except, of course, for Sam.

“Oh, Sam,” she murmured and then she was wailing again. Loudly.

I put a hand over my ear closest to Diana. And Wayne and I both started throwing desperate, reassuring words her way. About Sam, about the police, about her love for Nathan. Anything to stop the wailing.

The doorbell rang, succeeding in stopping Diana’s tears where our words had failed. I trotted to the door thankfully.

I was even more thankful when I opened it. Diana’s mother, Liz Atherton, stood there. No nonsense salt-and-pepper hair and all. All right! Mom to the rescue.
Our
rescue.

“Gary said Diana was headed over here,” Liz explained brusquely. She rubbed her temple and looked away as if embarrassed to intrude. “Said she was upset. Thought I could help.”

“I’m so glad to see you—” I began.

And then Diana cried, “Mom!” and jumped from the couch to run and throw herself into her mother’s arms. For a moment, I thought she’d knock the smaller woman over.

Pretty soon, both Liz and Diana Atherton were seated on our denim couch, Wayne and I sitting on the futon across from them. Wayne offered Liz a succinct version of what Diana had told us, sans tears.

“They’ll be wanting a scapegoat,” Liz commented when Wayne had finished the part about the massage oil on Sam’s jacket. She put her arm around her daughter’s trembling shoulders. “But it won’t be Diana.”

“But Mom, they know I…I love Nathan,” Diana announced tremulously.

“Nathan?” Liz said, drawing back from Diana. “But…” She stared at her daughter, as if she didn’t recognize her for a moment, then seemed to pull herself back together as she closed her eyes and rubbed her temple some more. Obviously, she was hearing Diana’s confession for the first time.

Then abruptly, Liz stood up from the couch. “Diana and I will be going,” she announced. “Shouldn’t be troubling you good people anymore.”

Then Diana stood too, back yoga-straight.

The two women exited together, Liz’s arm around her daughter’s waist as they walked down the stairs, Diana’s long black braid brushing the back of her mother’s encircling arm as they went.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Liz said. “There is some justice in this world. The police won’t arrest you for Sam’s murder. I promise.”

I just hoped she could keep that promise as I watched the two leave in their separate cars. I wasn’t so sure. Liz had said it herself—the Quiero police needed a scapegoat. They were between a rock and a hard place, so to speak. Or a bluff and a hard place. Sam’s spread-eagled body flashed into my mind in gruesome detail. I shook my head hard to rid myself of the vision. Think, I told myself. But my thoughts weren’t much better. With the vase prints on Sam’s shoulders, the police couldn’t just explain away Sam’s death as a suicide. And they probably didn’t have any better idea of who really killed him than we did. Scapegoat season in Quiero had probably just begun.

Once mother and daughter were gone, Wayne and I flopped onto the couch, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

“Are we back on the case?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.

Wayne opened his mouth, probably to object, but then seemed to change his mind midway to verbalization. He closed his mouth, then opened it again. With obvious reluctance.

“Guess so,” he sighed. “But together, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed and stood up. “Let’s go see Nathan.”

A call to the Institute got us Nathan this time. He was just leaving and agreed to see us at his home in half an hour.

It was a long half hour. Because Wayne and I both spilled out all our theories on the way to Nathan’s, all the theories we weren’t supposed to be working on. Perry as religious fanatic (Wayne’s theory), Tessa as self head-bonker (mine), Nathan as playing out Oedipal feelings on his soon-to-be stepmother (Wayne’s), Martina as ambitious to gain control of the Institute (mine), Liz as being in love with Sam herself (Wayne’s), Ray as wanting the story (mine), and…We couldn’t seem to stop as the theories cascaded from our minds via our mouths.

I was more confused than ever when we parked in front of Nathan’s apartment building. Because, between us, Wayne and I had motives for each and every person who had been there when Sam was pushed. Multiple motives. Except for ourselves. And I was sure we could have come up with those too if necessary.

Nathan’s apartment was a lot like his office. His living room was stuffed with bookcases and filing cabinets. And his furniture might have come from the Salvation Army. In fact, it probably did, I decided, lowering myself onto the lone, lumpy brown couch next to Wayne. The major difference between his office and home was the extra animals here. Not only Sigmund, the graying Labrador retriever we’d already met, but an Irish setter, and three or four cats darting in and out and around the stacks of papers and books on the floor. No wonder Nathan cultivated such a furry face. He had to in order to fit in with his menagerie. Nathan pulled a kitchen chair across from us and sat down. A tabby with a well-chewed ear claimed his lap immediately to the yowls of the remaining cats.

“You’re here about my dad?” Nathan asked, his voice as calm and mesmerizing as usual. He might have been a psychotherapist ready to listen. And then I remembered that a psychotherapist was indeed what he would probably become now that his father was gone.

“We came to ask about your father,” I answered, trying to put the same mesmerizing tone into my voice. Trying to switch our roles. “But we came to see how you were doing too. Do you still think you’ll go after your Ph.D. in psychology now?” I would work up to the harder questions later.

Nathan leaned back in his chair and absently stroked the cat in his lap. The tabby half closed its eyes, smugly surveying the restless feline underclass circling the chair.

“Probably,” Nathan said after a few purrs from his lap. “My mom thinks I should. And Martina is certainly proving herself able and ready to take over the reins at the Institute. She’ll do a good job keeping it going.”

“How does Diana feel about that?” Wayne asked softly.

Nathan’s body jerked ever so slightly in his chair. I wouldn’t have noticed except for the tabby who opened her eyes for a moment and hissed a swift reprimand before snuggling back down onto Nathan’s khaki pants.

“Well,” Nathan murmured, his face reddening in the few spots not covered in fur. “Um, Diana is okay with that. She didn’t care that much about the Institute as the Institute anyway. She was more concerned with Dad.”

“And with you,” I prodded.

Nathan looked at the ground for a few moments.

“And with me,” he whispered in agreement finally.

“Do the police know about you and Diana?” I asked, keeping my voice properly sympathetic.

“There isn’t a whole lot to know,” Nathan replied, his voice higher than before, but not by much. “Diana and I have certain feelings for each other, it’s true. But we’ve never acted on them. It didn’t seem right while Dad…while Dad was alive. And now, well…” He shrugged gently enough that the tabby didn’t have to reprimand him.

Now I really was sympathetic. I certainly hoped he hadn’t expressed himself in those particular words to the police. Unless he really was the murderer. Talk about your scapegoats. I squinted my eyes at him, trying to see what was beneath that kind, furry facade. And gave up. I would let Wayne be in charge of suspecting Nathan. I just couldn’t get up the resolve to suspect a man petting a cat so gently, no matter how powerful his patricidal motives might be.

“Did your father ever tell you what really happened when your stepmother went over the railing?” Wayne asked quietly.

The feline encephalograph twitched, hissing as Nathan’s body jerked again.

Nathan looked down for a moment at the cats on the floor and then lifted his head.

“Yes,” he said, so softly the word was barely discernible.

We waited.

“You won’t repeat any of this unless you have to?” he added a few moments later.

Wayne nodded. I added a quick, belated nod to Wayne’s. Even the cats at Nathan’s feet were staring up at him in suspense. All the animals in the room, including us, seemed to hold their breaths. And then Nathan spoke.

“I guess I already told you that Dad and Sally fought a lot,” he began. “She’d throw a punch or a slap, and he’d hit her back sometimes. Too often. Oddly enough, he really liked her. Probably even loved her. That’s why he put up with the physical stuff. When she wasn’t angry, Sally was a witty and intelligent woman. Similar to my mother in some ways.” He paused. “But Sally was a rage-aholic. And Dad…well, Dad just couldn’t control his responses all the time. He talked to me a little about it, how he’d try to leave the room when she lashed out. Or to just breathe through it. But it wasn’t just the physical stuff, it was the things she said with the blows. She called him a wimp and a nobody and all kinds of things that really hit him where he lived, in his ego.”

Nathan got up suddenly, holding the tabby in his arms, then setting her gently on the floor before turning and walking to the window that looked out from his apartment. When he turned back he straightened his shoulders, not much but a little.

“I haven’t told anyone this before, not even the police,” he said, his voice stronger. “But Dad is dead now, so I guess it can’t hurt. Dad and Sally lived in a house on top of a cliff in Eldora. They both drank too much. He stopped drinking after…after Sally died. After he pushed her.” Nathan wrapped his arms around himself as if for the warmth. His normally calm voice sped up. “They were on the balcony. Sally was leaning up against the railing, ranting. She told Dad he was worthless, that he’d only married her for her money.