A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (6 page)
Read A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Online
Authors: Jaqueline Girdner
“Laura—” he began and stepped toward her.
Laura strode in and held Wayne to her.
Poor Laura,
I thought, and then,
this hug is way too long.
Because it was. Laura’s grip was a drowning woman’s and Wayne was her buoy. I tried to remind myself of Laura’s situation. She was grieving. She needed Wayne now. I took a deep breath in, and she was still holding him. I let the breath out and took in another one. Then Laura kissed Wayne, somewhere between the cheek and the mouth, way too close to the mouth.
Wayne was bright red when Laura finally let go of him, and I had a feeling I was, too. Only Laura’s complexion had withstood the assault. Her eyes were misty when she turned to me.
She gathered me into her arms for a secondary hug and I forgot my jealousy. This woman had lost her husband. We were lucky she wasn’t screaming. Instead, she was finding solace in its most primal form. I could smell the floral fragrance of her soap and deodorant, and I felt the desperate strength of her arms around me. Still, she didn’t kiss
me
before she released me from her hug.
“Kate,” she said, her voice low and serious, “thank you.”
“Um, anything we can do…” I began, but stopped myself. I didn’t want to offer up Wayne’s body through a slip of the tongue. “How are you?” I asked instead. “Has your son come home?”
“Not yet,” she answered. “We’ve talked on the phone. He’ll be home as soon as he can. This is a difficult time, but we’re taking it day by day.” She paused, then said, “We must move forward.”
Her all-American face looked haggard, but her hair was still perfectly styled, and she was dressed both for mourning and for political success in a charcoal gray pinstriped suit and low-heeled black pumps.
A petite young woman I’d barely noticed in the hug-fest stepped in behind Laura.
“Ms. Summers’ life may be in danger,” the woman announced.
My jaw must have dropped. Was this murder really about Laura?
“Now, Tiffany,” Laura admonished, and then she introduced the young woman. “This is one of my able assistants.”
But Tiffany wasn’t finished.
Her gray eyes widened as she spoke. “If only I had been with Ms. Summers that day. But that’s her private day.”
Laura nodded solemnly.
“Even I need one day a week for privacy. Steve understood. When the Assembly is in session, of course, I have to be there. But when I am at home, Wednesday is my day—our day, mine and Steve’s.”
My eyes filled with tears. Steve had been killed on her private day. It wasn’t fair.
“Laura?” Wayne put in urgently, “
Is
your life in danger?”
Up until now, neither of us had believed such a thing, but suddenly it didn’t seem so far-fetched. How many enemies could you make as a state assemblywoman? Could someone have killed Steve to hurt Laura?
“No,” Laura said, shaking her head slowly. “I can’t believe that Steve’s death had anything to do with my role in the Assembly. My people worry, of course. But I think Steve’s death had to do with Heartlink.”
I shivered. It was one thing for us to talk about a murderer in Heartlink, but it was another to hear Laura state it.
“Please, Wayne, Kate,” Laura begged. “Tell me what you know.”
I led Laura and Tiffany into the living room, thinking hard and fast. Did we know anything that could lead us to the murderer’s identity? Tiffany took out a little notebook and a pen as the two of them sat on the couch. I didn’t think we were going to tell her much to put into that little notebook.
“Laura,” Wayne asked, once we had plopped down into the hanging chair. “Are you sure there’s no link to you?”
Laura shook her head curtly, her blond bob rippling with the effect. Tiffany’s gray eyes widened a little further under her own identically styled brown bob.
“No crank notes?” Wayne persisted. “No threats?”
“You don’t act as a member of the Assembly without receiving letters, but none of them threatened myself or Steve with any kind of physical violence. Julie reads those letters. She would have told me.” She hurried on. “No, it was in Steve’s other life, his life as a journalist, his life as a member of Heartlink. I’m sure of it.”
This put the ball back in our court. I turned to Wayne. Would he break confidentiality for a grieving widow?
“You know something,” Laura stated. I shouldn’t have looked at Wayne. This woman could read people, and she had read my look all too well.
“Has Steve been upset over the last couple of weeks?” Wayne asked. I knew he was buying time, deciding where his duty lay—with Steve’s confidentiality or with his widow.
Laura shook her head and crinkled her brow. “He was quiet, maybe more quiet than usual. I thought maybe something had happened in the group two weeks ago. But he didn’t tell me. Was there something?”
“Nothing that I can equate with murder,” Wayne answered. I could tell he’d made up his mind to protect Steve’s confidentiality. “Upsetting things were said in that group, but I can’t see how any of them could have led to murder.”
Laura closed her eyes. “My Steve,” she moaned.
I ran over and put my arm around her shoulders. Hugging didn’t seem to be one of Tiffany’s duties.
“Steve was okay,” Wayne assured her. “His death was quick.”
“But why?” Laura insisted, clinging to me now. “Why? It must have something to do with the group. It has to.”
“You know, the group and everyone from the potluck are meeting today,” Wayne sidestepped her question. He paused. “Maybe we’ll find out more then.”
“You don’t know anything that will solve this mystery?” Laura asked again, bending forward, regarding Wayne intently.
No,” Wayne said, and I knew he was being honest.
“Do you, Kate?” she asked me.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just wish I did. But we’ll keep looking,” I promised.
Laura frowned.
“Thank you,” she told us. “Thank you for being dear, dear friends. But please don’t put yourself in any danger asking questions. I couldn’t bear another death.”
And then Laura Summers got up from the couch. Tiffany closed her notebook and followed her to the front door, where Laura hugged us both again. This time she held on to Wayne for a shorter time, but she kissed him again. I can’t say exactly where she kissed him because I averted my eyes at the last moment.
Once she was gone, Wayne and I held each other for a long time. I know we were both thinking how awful it would be to lose one another. And there was nothing we could do for Laura—nothing but find Steve’s murderer.
We might have held each other for the rest of the day if the doorbell hadn’t rung again. But it did.
And, unfortunately, I answered it.
Felix was on my doorstep now, though, not Laura Summers.
“How goes the spiritual—” I began.
But Felix pushed past me, a scowl on his face, anger in his sweat.
“Holy socks!” he began. “You found another stiff, didn’t ya? And you didn’t tell me nada! Your pal, your compadre. D’ya know what Brother Ingenio would say about that? Huh? Huh?”
- Seven -
“No,” I said to Felix, keeping my voice steady. “What
would
Brother Ingenio say about my listening to your spiritual struggle instead of burdening you with the details of a tragic death?”
That stopped him for a second. Exactly one second.
“Some buddy you are, Kate. You, smacking my spiritual beliefs in my friggin’ face at a time like this.” Felix widened his soulful eyes. “You found another dead body and didn’t tell me. All the rest of the media ghouls got it first. Friggin’ first, and I’m your friggin’ friend. Sheesh, Louise, ya wanna see me out on the street—”
“Is there something you want?” Wayne asked from behind me.
Felix looked up, a forced smile on his face. Wayne had never violently assaulted Felix, an amazing feat of self-restraint, all things considered, but Wayne made Felix nervous, anyway. Maybe Felix had figured out somewhere in his tiny conscience that he deserved a quick karate kick just for all the times he’d made our life miserable.
“Hey, Big Guy,” he greeted Wayne. “Just here to get the poop on the Summers’ hit, ya know what I mean? Real bummer, and they don’t know doodly down at the cop-shop.”
“Yes, it
was
a real ‘bummer,’” Wayne agreed, his deep voice vibrating on the word. “Especially for Steve’s widow. Have you thought about her at all?”
I knew Wayne was asking Felix about his sensitivity to the widow’s grief, but Felix didn’t. Sensitivity wasn’t big in Felix’s repertoire of behavior. Badgering, yes; sensitivity, no.
“Nah, the widow just doesn’t play, ya know what I mean?” Felix answered earnestly. “No friggin’ motive. But the dudes from your group…”
He let his sentence drift off, his eyes taking on an unholy gleam.
“The guys from my group what, Felix?” Wayne demanded.
“Um, they might have friggin’ motives. That’s all, man. Look, here’s this bunch of Mr. Sensitives pouring out their boo-hooey little hearts. And here’s this prize-winning, whiz-bang journalist. Whaddaya think’s gonna happen? If I’d been in that group, I’d have found a way to make a story out of it.”
Oddly enough, he was making some sense. That was kind of scary when I thought about it.
“Felix, what do you know about Steve Summers?” I asked.
“What did the C.I.A. know about Abby Hoffman, man?” Felix answered.
I took that to mean that he knew something. We let Felix in the door and onto the denim couch. Felix was our source of information; we were not his—at least I hoped not.
I plopped down into the hanging chair, but Wayne remained standing, all the better to intimidate Felix. And all the better to be ready to lead the reporter out of the house on a moment’s notice.
“Felix, you knew Steve Summers as a writer,” I said sweetly. “Tell us about him.”
Felix squinted his eyes and crossed his arms, but he talked.
“The man got all the breaks, okay? He wrote for the
New Yorker
and the
Atlantic Monthly.
All that pseudo-intellectual cow patty. He started out like the rest of us, a small-time paper hack, but then he got Big, with a capital ‘B.’ He even wrote books—one on politics and economics, one about ethical investing. Holy Moly, I can do better than that. Where’s the sizzle, man? If it bleeds, it leads; if it thinks, it stinks. And then he gets these friggin’ awards—”
“He was a writer of stature,” Wayne summed up. “We know that, Felix.”
“Maybe he had stature, but just ‘cause everyone thought he was a friggin’ big deal, just because he was soooo full of himself. Mr. Perfect with a pen.”
I resolved to read Steve Summers’ work. He must have been good to stir up this much jealousy.
“How about his wife, Laura?” I asked Felix. “Was she cool?”
“Oh, now Laura Summers is the big banana, all right. All her constituents think she walks on water. She votes the right way, she talks the right way, maybe she even thinks the right way. No one but Oz knows, man.”
“Any questions of propriety?” I pushed Felix. I already knew about Laura’s public persona. I wanted to hear some good gossip.
“Laura Summers?” He laughed. “You gotta be kidding. “We’ve all been trying to find one stinkin’ flaw in that woman for years. Not a friggin’ thing. No smoking a little pot, no
leetle
affairs, no nothing. She’s bigger than the Pope, man. When she makes a promise, she carries through. And she doesn’t need money. Her parents had mucho buckaroos, ya know what I mean? The woman’s loaded—what she doesn’t give to charity. Mr. and Ms. Perfect, those two.”
Felix leaned forward. “So how about your little pals at Heartlink?” he asked Wayne.
Wayne exercised more self-restraint than Felix had. I could see it in the way he held his hands at his sides, sweat darkening the armpits of his blue T-shirt.
“We keep our boo-hooeys to ourselves,” Wayne informed Felix.
Felix’s face fell.
“Hey, wait a friggin’ second,” he objected. “I gave you what I know. Now it’s payback time.”
“If I come up with a murder motive, you’ll be the third to know,” Wayne promised and moved toward Felix.
Felix jumped off the couch.
“I’ll be back,” he told us.
“Thanks for the warning,” I chirped as he sped out the door and down the front steps. “Have a nice day.”
Once we were sure Felix was gone, Wayne and I got ready for the emergency Heartlink group meeting. Wayne made muffins with shredded coconut and chunks of pineapple and banana while I did my part, worrying. Felix had talked sense somewhere in his screed. One of Wayne’s buddies was probably a murderer, and we were about to go visit them.
The phone rang just as Wayne tastefully arranged his tropical muffins on a china plate and carefully covered them with a linen napkin.
I don’t know why I picked up the receiver. Stimulus-response conditioning is my only excuse. My brother Kevin was on the line when I did.
“Hey, Katie,” he greeted me. I almost hung up then. But he was my little brother, so I couldn’t hang up, no matter how many times I’d told him not to call me “Katie.”
“Xanthe got a flash, and I thought you’d want to hear.” I gritted my teeth. Xanthe was Kevin’s sweetie, a woman who could curse you one day and hug you the next. “So do you wanna know what she said?”
I kept my sigh internal. “Make it short, Kevin. We’re on our way to a meeting.”
“Oh, wow, cool!” he replied. Everything was cool to Kevin. Kevin could be enthusiastic about dust settling. “You’re targeting your energies, I’ll bet. You always do.” I smacked the side of my head. Kevin’s compliments always short-circuited me. He went on. “You know how Xanthe’s in the psychic flow?”
“Right,” I agreed, moving things along.
“Well, she was sitting here working on our latest project, solar-powered kelp. It’s really cool, Katie—”
“And?”
“Oh, yeah, and she flashed that Mom’s planning some kind of sneak attack on you for a formal wedding.”
“Thanks, Kevin,” I said sincerely. “But I already know. It’s Aunt Dorothy.”
“Oh, wow, Katie,” he whispered sympathetically. You couldn’t grow up in our family and not know Aunt Dorothy. Then his voice came back up to normal volume. “Maybe you need some solar-powered kelp. See, the solar power activates the kelp’s healing potential. It’s amazing—”
“Thanks, Kevin,” I said again, not so sincerely. “And thank Xanthe for me.” And then I hung up the phone.
I groaned after I hung up. I was sure I’d hear more about solar kelp soon. And I could almost smell the patchouli oil Kevin and Xanthe habitually wore. I considered figuring out my new phone system and putting Kevin’s phone number on permanent block.
And then I remembered what day it was: Thursday. I’d almost forgotten that Aunt Dorothy was coming in today. But it was too late to stop her, anyway. Aunt Dorothy, AKA the wedding warhead, had already been launched.
Wayne and I finally got out the door, muffins and minds intact. Well, at least the muffins were. Wayne scanned our driveway as we left the house. And then he dropped his eyes. Had he forgotten that his Jaguar had been impounded?
“Toyota,” he muttered, misery in his voice. He
had
forgotten about the Jaguar.
But my old Toyota ran. In fact, it ran all the way to the Kimmochis’ house in the hills of San Ricardo without a hiccup. I guess it had something to prove.
The Kimmochis’ two-story hillside house was perfect. At least the living room was. Perfect, that is, if you liked their decorator’s use of light and color. Willow green, apricot, and lemon yellow furnishings were softly lit in the living room’s perfect balance, as were the quirky but expensive sconces, pendants, and fixtures. Stone lions, candle groupings, faux baroque mirrors, and paintings that might have been quilted with tiny squares in the same colors as the furnishings made the room visually playful—but only visually. Though the Kimmochis had two daughters, Niki and Zora (eight and thirteen, respectively), there were no children’s toys in the room, no scrawled pictures beloved only by parents. This was a cerebral room. The only thing out of balance was the buffet table filled with potluck goodies and dishes that was centered in front of the faux fireplace.
“Mo-om, it’s Kate and Wayne!” Zora called out as we entered the Kimmochis’ perfect kingdom.
Zora was a beautiful young woman, and was just beginning to realize it. She had her father’s dark symmetrical eyes and jet black hair, and a scattering of her mother’s freckles over her perfect little nose. Niki peeked out from behind Zora, clutching her older sister’s blue-jeaned leg. Niki looked like a princess. A heart-shaped face, long dark eyelashes, and a Laura Ashley frock helped the look.
“Mo-om!” Niki imitated her older sister, shattering the princess illusion.
Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi rushed up then, her red hair the only part of her that was mussed. And even that looked professionally mussed. She was wearing a lemon-yellow dress that looked a lot like her youngest daughter’s. I guess she didn’t get much opportunity to wear ruffles and lace in her role as a financial advisor.
“We don’t yell in this house,” she instructed her girls loudly.
The girls’ eyes widened as they looked at their mother, but they said nothing. I had a feeling that Janet did a lot of yelling in her house. But today, she was a hostess.
“Kate, Wayne,” she greeted us, her voice softening. Then she pecked us each on the cheek, smelling of an expensive scent I couldn’t identify. “So good to see you.”
Somehow the greeting seemed wrong for a group that was minus a murder victim. Still, I smiled and returned a polite hello.
Wayne mumbled something incomprehensible, but probably friendly. Even I couldn’t make out his words. All I could tell was that he was uncomfortable. I looked up into his face, searching for an answer, but Ted Kimmochi had made his way through the room to greet us before I had a chance to find it.
“Such a sad day,” Ted murmured. At least I could understand Ted. “Such a tragedy. Unbearable.”
I nodded. Unlike his wife, Ted recognized the mood of the occasion. Then again, Ted could find a tragedy any time, anywhere, and usually did. Blanche Dubois could have taken lessons from the man.
“Oh, Ted,” Janet admonished. “Don’t be so negative. Did Ted tell you about the beautification project we’ve started at the San Ricardo Library?”
I shook my head. Ted rarely spoke of anything but himself.
“Well.” Janet took a breath and put her hands on her hips. “That library is a disgrace. Dark and musty. So I offered to help design a new look. Light is the key. When we get the donations, we’ll put in skylights. And pick colors. The community is the important thing…”
Behind her, Carl’s son, Mike, had
his
hands on
his
hips and was bobbing his head in an enthusiastic mime of Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi. I shouldn’t have looked because it caused Zora and Niki to look.
“Mo-om, Mike’s—” Zora began.
“—being really, really bad,” her sister Niki finished for her.
Janet turned around as the girls flew at Mike, pummeling him with tiny but hard fists.
“Ow, ow!” he yelped and leapt over an apricot ottoman to relative safety next to his father.
“Mike, what the hell did you do now?” Carl demanded, wriggling his broad shoulders in his suit.
Mike wriggled his own shoulders and imitated his father’s glare. He didn’t have his father’s fleshy features yet, but he still could have played Carl in the movies—with a little padding.
The girls giggled. Carl didn’t.
“Mike—” his father began again.
Garrett Peterson stepped between father and son, a smile on his gentle, wide-featured face.
“Mike’s quite a comedian, isn’t he?” he asked, his deep voice a soothing vibration.
A smile crept across Carl’s face slowly. Mike must have been hard to stay mad at for long.
“But he made fun of Mom,” Niki complained.
“Oh, dear,” Garrett murmured and squatted down to look into Niki’s face. “Is your mom all right?”
“Uh-huh,” Niki said, nodding her little head. Then she kissed the tip of Garrett’s nose and ran across the room, squealing in delight.
Maybe Garrett could get the murderer to confess after all, I decided. Wayne and I walked all the way into the room. It was then that I noticed the gang was all together—everyone but Steve. Wayne and I had been the last to arrive. Isaac Herrick stood with his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Helen, in the corner. Laura Summers was talking to Jerry Urban. And Van Eisner was filling a glass with wine at the buffet table. Wayne made tracks to get to that table and lay his muffins out just as Garrett stood up and said something I couldn’t hear to Carl. Then things got serious.
Garrett extended his arms and brought them together again, clasping his hands in front of his chest. He looked ecclesiastical in his white dress shirt and chinos. Each of us moved to the center of the Kimmochis’ living room as if Garrett’s arms had pulled us there. We were all standing, even the children, congealed into one small group by Garrett’s motion.
Garrett’s large eyes narrowed.
“We have gathered together today for a reason,” he began.
I wriggled my own shoulders now, squirming in place.
“We’re here to find Steve Summers’ killer,” he went on. He looked at each of us adults in turn. “Some of you may have wondered if the murderer might be in this room, since all of us knew when the group was breaking up, and all of us knew approximately when Steve would walk out onto the street—”
“Garrett,” Laura cut in softly. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s all right, Laura,” he told her. “I
do
have to do this. For you. And for Steve.”
Could he, though? Our group was certainly mesmerized. Mike Russo’s eyes were so round they looked like they’d fall from his head like loose marbles. And I was having trouble controlling the urge to mention the key that was taken from me at the potluck. Something about Garrett’s presence made me want to confess. Was the murderer also controlling the urge to confess?
“We must consider the possibility that the murder has to do with us, with the Heartlink group. If one of you did it, you must come forward now. I can tell you that you won’t be able to live with yourself afterward unless you do.”
And then someone
did
step forward: Jerry Urban, Garrett’s lover. There was no smile on his round, genial face. For a moment I thought he had stepped forward to say he was the murderer; Garrett’s words had been that powerful. But then I realized that Jerry was just moving closer to Garrett in order to protect him, physically and emotionally.
“Well?” Garrett finished, eyeing us each in turn.
“Hey!” yapped Van Eisner. “Are you accusing one of us? What is with you? I don’t get it. We’re a support group. We don’t accuse each other. We don’t spread each other’s secrets.” He advanced on Garrett, his fist raised. As he passed me, I could smell the wine seeping from his pores. “For God’s sake, what is your problem?”
Van’s fist was at least a yard from Garrett’s actual body, but that was too close for Jerry Urban.
Jerry stepped between the two men.
“Stop that!” Jerry ordered. I had never heard such seriousness in his tone before. “You have no right to speak to Garrett that way.”
Van dropped his fist. “Listen,” he tried. “This is all screwed up. We’re supposed to help each other—”
Jerry went on as if Van hadn’t spoken.
“And don’t you ever threaten Garrett again. I would protect Garrett with my life. You want to fight? Your fight is with me.”
A silence followed Jerry’s words.
I knew that Jerry was speaking with absolute sincerity—I felt the same about Wayne as he did about Garrett. And then the hair on my arms stood up. Could there have been a reason to kill Steve Summers that had to do with protecting Garrett? One that Garrett wasn’t even aware of? One that Jerry had acted upon?