Murder Most Mellow (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (9 page)

“Yeah, him,” she threw over her shoulder. “He took Freedom out of the pound right after the cops put him in.”

I picked up my own bowl and joined Vivian at the sink. “But Peter always said he hated dogs,” I told her. “And Freedom in particular. I wonder if he feels guilty for arguing with Sarah all these years or…” I let my words drift off. Could Peter be feeling guilty of something far worse?

“Or what?” Vivian demanded. She swiveled her head toward me as she turned off the water. “You’d better keep your nose outa this!”

I kept my sigh internal. That made five people today who didn’t want me to investigate. Time to change the subject. “Do you know who Sarah’s attorney and accountant were?” I asked quietly.

I saw the struggle in Vivian’s face. It was a good bet that she wouldn’t be able to resist showing off her inside information in spite of her disapproval of my investigative efforts.

“Yeah, I do,” she said finally, her voice sullen. “Her attorney was this lady, Janice Jackson, neat lady. And her accountant is a weird little guy, Donald Simpson.”

“What do you mean ‘weird’?” I pounced on her words.

Vivian tapped her head meaningfully. “He’s one of these ‘there are aliens among us’ guys,” she explained. She was into her story now, no longer sullen. She wiped her wet hands on a towel. “He says there have been beings from other planets living here for years and they’re infiltrating all walks of life. He says you can tell who they are because they don’t blink.”

“I never noticed whether Sarah blinked, did you?” I asked thoughtfully.

“Jesus, I was never crazy enough to check!” Vivian exploded. “Don’t tell me you buy that crap?”

“No, no,” I assured her. But Linda Zatara popped into my mind suddenly. If anyone was an alien… I shook off the thought. “I was just thinking that if Simpson
thought
Sarah was from another planet…” Vivian was glaring at me again. “Did he ever go to Sarah’s?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

“I can’t believe there’s something you don’t know,” I flattered cagily. “How do you find out all of this stuff, anyway?”

“I have my sources,” she replied with dignity, and returned to her chair.

“How about Sarah’s hotshot computer program that was supposed to make her a fortune?” I asked, following her back to the table.

“What about it?” Vivian responded, her voice sulky once more.

“Sarah must have told you something about it,” I pressed, unwilling to believe I had lost her again.

“Sarah didn’t tell me anything any more,” Vivian muttered. “I was just hired help to her.”

“Aw, come on—” I ventured.

“What do you wanna know all this crap for anyway?” she demanded, cutting me off. “Are you gonna play amateur detective? Huh? That’s a good way to get killed, you know.”

“How about helping me?” I asked. I sat down across from her and looked beseechingly into her eyes. “You could get state secrets out of the KGB, for God’s sake! We’ll make a great team.”

She didn’t even deign to answer that one. She just set her jaw and looked deliberately out over my head. The phone rang. I signaled Vivian to stay put while I answered, but she turned a blind eye to my gesture. She got up, thanked me in a hasty whisper for the meal, and went clattering down the back stairs as I said “Hello.”

My friend Ann Rivera was on the phone. Her cheery voice asked me where we were going to eat next Tuesday. My mind shifted gears slowly to respond to her simple question. She was the first person I had spoken to all day who knew nothing of Sarah’s death: The sudden return to normalcy felt like swimming up from the murky realms underwater to pop through to the air and sunshine. What a relief. We chatted about nothing in particular and decided to meet at The Elegant Vegetable the following week.

The ease of the light conversation shook my resolve to investigate Sarah’s death. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I should just ignore it. I went to the sink to wash the remaining dishes. But by the time I had put the last spoon in the drainer, I had convinced myself once more that I couldn’t endure never finding out if the “who” was possibly someone I knew. I dried my hands and reached for my phone book.

I found Janice Jackson listed in the Yellow Pages under “Attorneys.” She had a small advertisement, listing her specialties as business and family law, and offering free half-hour consultations. Would she talk to me about Sarah? About Sarah’s will? A knock on my front door interrupted my thoughts.

I looked out the window and saw Sergeant Feiffer. I put on a friendly face as I opened the door.

Feiffer’s face wasn’t friendly, though. His blue eyes were cool and serious. “Ms. Jasper,” he said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Sarah Quinn.” My muscles tensed when I heard the formality in his tone.

“Come on in,” I said, hoping I was speaking as the spider to the fly, not the fly to the spider. I could ask questions too, I reminded myself.

As I led him into the living room, he gazed at the pinball machines longingly.

“Hayburners, Hot Line, Texan,” he murmured. “God, you’re lucky.”

“Would you like to play a few games?” I asked and turned on the machines.

His eyes lit up along with the pinballs. His hands reached out to the sides of Hayburners as if of their own free will. I had forgotten he was an addict. But he stopped himself as he reached for the plunger. He straightened up and glared.

“Thanks, but I’m not here to play pinball,” he said. He forced his eyes away from the machine and back to me. My stomach flip-flopped.

“A chair?” I offered nervously.

“Thank you,” he said and sat down on the couch. All traces of lightness had disappeared from his face. He took a small notebook out of his pocket. Then he looked up at me and frowned. My stomach did another somersault.

“Tea?” I blathered.

“No,” he replied sternly. “Please sit down.”

I sat. He continued frowning at me as I plopped into my swinging chair. Purposeful intimidation, I decided. Well, I wasn’t going to fall for that. I’d conduct my own investigation.

“What have you guys found out about Sarah’s death?” I demanded as if I had the authority. “Was it murder?”

“Whoa,” he said. I thought I saw a smile pull at his mouth for a moment. Then he leaned forward seriously. “What makes you think it was murder?” he asked.

The ball was in my court. But I didn’t mind explaining. I watched his eyes as I outlined my reasons for rejecting suicide or accident. I saw a few faint flickers of interest, but nothing more. No surprises. I would have bet that he had been over this ground already. “And that leaves murder,” I concluded, volleying back to him.

“That may be,” he conceded. I leaned forward eagerly, ready for an intelligent discussion. “But we’re still in the process of gathering information,” he finished.

“Do you get that out of a book or what?” I asked in angry disappointment. “Every time I try to talk to you, you say you’re ‘in the process of gathering information.’ “

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he replied, his eyes almost friendly.

“Yeah?” I prodded. Was he finally going to share information?

“You shouldn’t dig into this,” he rapped out. He shook his pencil at me. “Let us do the job.”

I sank back into my swinging chair. Another vote of no confidence. That made it unanimous.

“Now, do you think you could answer some of
my
questions for a change?” Feiffer asked, his pencil poised. “For instance, who do you know who has visited Ms. Quinn’s house and maybe played with her computer? I have a list here: you, your husband—”

“My ex-husband,” I interrupted.

“Yeah, so I understand. I hear you’re not getting along with your boyfriend either,” he added breezily. His eyes smiled at me.

I squinted back at him. Why was he suddenly smiling?

The smile spread to his mouth. Then I recognized the expression. It was a leer. A subtle leer, but a leer none the less. Could he be interested in me as well as the pinball machines? It didn’t seem likely. I was no femme fatale. Maybe this was a new interrogation technique. If it was, it was effective, I decided. I was completely rattled. I realized my mouth was gaping open and clamped it shut.

“Okay,” Sergeant Feiffer said, his voice stern again. He glanced down at his notebook. “You, your ex-husband, the housekeeper Vivian Parrell, the gardener Jerry Gold, Peter Stromberg, Linda Zatara and Tony Olberti.” He looked back up at me. His leering smile was gone. Had I imagined it? “Do you know of anyone else who’s been to Sarah Quinn’s house?”

I didn’t answer. I was still trying to figure out the meaning of his smile. True, Feiffer had flirted with me the first time I met him. The second time too, for that matter. But I had assumed he was just playing.

“Ms. Jasper?” he prompted gently. “Anyone else?”

“How about the neighbors?” I offered, pulling myself back to the reality of Sarah’s death. “She might have invited them in.”

“We’re checking that possibility out,” he assured me.

“And her sister and her boyfriend?” I pressed.

“Yeah, we’re checking them out too.”

“I suppose you’re also ‘checking out’ her ex-business partner, attorney and accountant,” I concluded.

“You got it,” he answered. He smiled again. I dropped my eyes quickly.

“And I suppose it doesn’t look like anyone broke in or anything,” I mumbled.

“They wouldn’t have had to break in,” Feiffer said, shaking his head slowly in disgust. “From what I understand, the woman didn’t lock her doors.”

“That’s right, she didn’t,” I conceded. But I felt defensive on Sarah’s account. “You’ve got to understand,” I told him, “Sarah really believed in the benevolence of the universe. And that’s usually what she got too.” I sighed. “Until this, anyway.”

“Well, I hope you lock your doors, Ms. Jasper,” he said. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” His voice was affectionate. Too affectionate.

“No problem,” I said in an effort at nonchalance. My effort came out sounding gruff.

Sergeant Feiffer seemed to catch my mood. His manner was all business when he asked me if I knew anyone with a motive to murder Sarah.

I shook my head. Sarah might have rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. But enough for murder?

“You know these people,” Feiffer said. “Are any of them mentally unstable?”

I shook my head again. But I wondered. Someone had to be unstable, didn’t they, to commit murder?

“How about drugs?” Feiffer went on.

“Drugs?” I repeated stupidly.

“Yeah, drugs,” he said, smiling again. “You know what we say in the Sheriff’s Department—if you find someone who looks dead on a Marin street, put a mirror under their nose. If they inhale, they’re still alive.” He pantomimed sniffing coke.

“No, Sarah didn’t need drugs,” I told him, laughing in spite of myself. “She was strange enough without them.”

That comment started him on another round of intense interrogation. Just how was Sarah strange? Were her friends strange, too? Just what went on in our study group, anyway? Did we really meet in a hot tub? What did I know that I wasn’t saying? And on. And on. By the time he had finished pummeling me with more questions, I wasn’t sure which was harder to deal with, an affectionate sergeant or a serious one. An affectionate one was likely to become an angry one if spurned, I thought suddenly. My neck muscles tightened. I interrupted him before his next question to begin my own interrogation.

“Do you know who did it?” I asked, watching his eyes.

His eyes narrowed. “I’m asking the questions, not you,” he reminded me. Did he know? I wished I had Barbara’s psychic powers.

Feiffer stood up abruptly to leave before I could ask anything else.

“Those are some nice machines,” he said, looking at the pinballs wistfully. “Maybe I can come over for a game when this investigation is all over.”

“Sure,” I said, without thinking.

He gave me a big smile and left. I let out a long, trembling sigh. If only Wayne had given me that smile, I thought sadly.

I shook my head violently. I wasn’t going to worry about men anymore. I reached for the phone book.

Sarah’s attorney, Janice Jackson, was listed as having an office in San Rafael. I began to dial her telephone number but put down the receiver before I completed the call. She might refuse to see me if I called first. But what if I just presented myself at her office? I jotted down her address, turned on the answering machine, put on my glasses, and left the house before my mind could stop me with rational objections.

The “Professional Building” that housed Janice Jackson’s office was neither modern nor attractively Victorian. It was a fifties-vintage, long, low two-story building. Its age and lack of style were inadequately disguised by new redwood shingling. I entered the lobby and found Jackson’s name on the directory among those of other attorneys, accountants and consultants. “Donald Simpson, Accountant,” was also listed. I took the accessibility of both Sarah’s attorney and accountant in one building as a good omen.

The sign on Ms. Jackson’s door said, please come in, so I did. An attractive young black woman with warm, friendly eyes and cropped hair was perched on the receptionist’s desk. I asked her if I could speak to the attorney.