Read Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Online
Authors: Jaqueline Girdner
Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (20 page)
“‘Eventually’?” I demanded. “What do you mean by ‘eventually’?”
Paul diverted his gaze out the window. I couldn’t blame him.
“Kate,” Barbara chided me, nodding toward Paul. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“But—”
Barbara shook her head, just like my mother used to when I was a child and out of line. And it worked. I asked Paul how he liked dowsing.
“It’s a nature kind of thing,” he explained. I could just barely hear him. He wasn’t looking out the window any more, but he was staring at the floor again. “I do computer programming most of the time.”
“Oh,” I tried. “That must be interesting.”
“Not really,” he answered. “I’m just an old COBOL slinger. Years and years—”
“So now Paul dowses,” Barbara interrupted.
Maybe the years were getting to her. They were getting to me. I looked at Paul more closely. Under the straggly hair, he did look kind of ancient. Wrinkles and crevices defined his skinny face. And the sacks beneath his eyes could have carried computer monitors for that matter.
“I’ve got the feel for water, you see,” he started again. “It’s like me and my stick can feel its flow vibrating.”
“Oh, so you use a stick?” I prompted politely.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I learned about it from this really old guy years and years ago—”
“And now he’s gonna find us a murderer,” Barbara cut in again.
“With your stick?” I prodded.
“Well, I never found a murderer before, but Barbara here keeps telling me I can, so—”
“She talked you into it,” I finished for him.
“Yeah,” he conceded, making eye contact for the first time.
I looked back into his tired eyes and saw an appeal there. He wanted me to talk Barbara out of it. As if I could talk Barbara out of anything. But I opened my mouth to try.
“We ready to go?” Wayne demanded, appearing in chinos and a white shirt before I could even form the words that might make a dent in Barbara. It would have been a worthless effort anyway, I told myself. And what could it hurt to have Paul dowse for a murderer?
Then I took a good look at Wayne. I realized I hadn’t seen him out of his p.j.’s in days. I jumped up to hug him. And not just out of affection. I wanted to see how steady he was on his feet. He was steady enough to hug me back. And he didn’t smell of Vicks anymore.
I took a big breath and said, “Let’s go.” Just like Custer. Just like Napoleon at Waterloo. Just like every other time I’d let Barbara talk me into something I’d regret later.
The four of us climbed into my Toyota for the drive to Justine’s. Because that’s where Barbara insisted Paul’s dowsing should begin. At Justine’s.
This time, four of us made our way up the stone path to the redwood-shingled cottage.
Wayne met Justine when she opened the door and led us into the living room, or the dying room as I thought of it now. It seemed strange that a place where someone had died so violently could be so peaceful in the midday light. The knotty-wood paneling and grass cloth and fluffy white curtains cast their spell. And then there was Justine, a smile stretching the skin over her broad nose and cheekbones, crinkling her large, dark eyes.
“You must be Wayne,” she greeted him, offering her hand. I tried to remember if I’d ever told her Wayne’s name. Or maybe Barbara had.
Wayne took Justine’s hand and peered into her eyes as if seeking something.
“You should be careful of your health,” Justine warned him.
Wayne stepped back as if she’d had a joy buzzer in her hand. You’d think he’d had enough experience with Barbara’s pronouncements to be immune.
“You’re doing well, but if you push…” Justine’s words trailed off and she shrugged.
Wayne didn’t look worried over Justine’s words, but I was alarmed.
“Have a seat, sweetie,” I told him. “I have a couple of questions for Justine.” And oddly enough, once Wayne was seated in one of the comfortable, corduroy armchairs, I found I really did have some questions.
“Just what’s up with Artemisia, anyway?” I asked. “Does she really have bad spirits? I mean, she’s burning every herb known to woman and painting turtles and—”
“Whoa,” Justine threw in. She put up a hand and laughed. “One question at a time.”
“All right,” I agreed. “What’s with the turtles?”
“Rituals,” Justine answered me seriously. “Those are rituals she thinks will protect her.”
“But from what?” I demanded.
Justine sighed. “Artemisia believes bad spirits are causing the confusion in her life.”
“And are they?” I pushed.
“Maybe,” Justine replied, her deep, quiet voice solemn now. “But the worst spirits Artemisia has to deal with are her own memories of an abusive childhood.”
“Oh,” I murmured, and I was all out of questions.
Poor Artemisia. I’d thought of her as silly, even nuts. But not tragic.
“Don’t worry,” Justine assured me. “Artemisia may be weirder than…than”—she waved her hands in the air for a moment, then smiled before completing her sentence—”weirder than a painted turtle, but she’s a survivor. She’ll be fine.”
And oddly enough, I did feel better with Justine’s assurance.
Justine turned back to Wayne.
“But you won’t be fine if you don’t rest,” she warned.
My worry synapses started firing again.
“Right,” he grunted.
Justine just shrugged and crinkled her eyes into a smile once more.
“Don’t be too concerned,” she went on, turning back to me. “He’ll have a relapse, but he’ll be fine in the end.”
Wayne lowered his eyebrows to cover his eyes as I said, “Oh. Um, thanks.”
I was glad he was too polite to do more than wiggle his brows. I was sure he wanted to scream at her. I would have.
At least, Justine knew when to quit. She turned to Paul now, still standing by the door at parade rest, holding a forked stick in his hand.
“What do you need?” she asked him.
“Well, usually, I just look for water—”
“He’ll need the names of the suspects,” Barbara answered for him.
Justine’s voice was deep as she rattled off the list, beginning with her own name. “Justine Howe, Zarathustra Howe, Linda Underwood, Tory Quesada, Gil Nesbit, Denise Parnell, Artemisia Twitchell, Elsa Oberg, Rich McGowan, Barbara Chu, and Kate Jasper.” She might have been announcing the targets for a firing squad.
Paul concentrated as she spoke our names, then turned back to the open doorway, holding the forks of his stick in his hands. And miraculously, the stick seemed to be pulling him, like a dog on a leash. Barbara, Wayne, and I trotted after him as he moved across the terrain outside Justine’s house, and then down a sidewalk, and into a public park. I hoped he didn’t need to go much further. Would he hitch a ride if he had to go to another city? But I needn’t have worried.
We were all huffing and puffing when we caught up to our dowser, where he stood next to a water tower.
- Twenty -
I didn’t see any murderers standing by the water tower, though.
Paul looked down at his feet. “Water,” he mumbled. “I found water.”
“We noticed,” I told him. I could even smell the water now, mingled with the scent of grass and dogs past.
“See, that’s what I’m good at,” he explained, his voice a little clearer. “Water, not murderers—”
“Don’t worry, Paul, we’re just starting,” Barbara piped up cheerily. “First you find the water, then the murderer.”
“No,” Paul said, only it was more of a groan than a word. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this—”
“Paul, you’re not giving up, are you?” Barbara demanded, her hands on her hips, her lovely face pursed like a schoolmarm’s.
“Yeah, I am,” he replied, holding his stick against his chest protectively.
“But you’ve just started—”
“No, I’ve just finished,” Paul corrected her.
Much as I would have liked Paul to find our murderer, I felt a guilt-tinged surge of pleasure hearing someone, anyone, rebel against Barbara.
I looked over at Wayne, wondering if he was sharing my pleasure, and the pleasure drained from my body. Because Wayne didn’t look good. He was pale and perspiring, and swaying on his feet. Of course, a run across the parklands was not really an appropriate activity for a man who’d barely been able to walk to the bathroom a couple of days earlier.
“Wayne?” I whispered.
But Wayne didn’t hear me.
“Want a ride home?” he asked Paul, ever courteous, even as he stood there ready to pass out.
“Nah,” Paul replied. “I’ll hitch.” He held his stick in one hand and strode across the park toward the sidewalk, just too fast for Barbara to catch up with him. “But thanks anyway,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“I still think he could have done it,” Barbara groused as we walked back to Justine’s, slowly. I had my arm around Wayne’s waist, hoping he’d lean into me, but so far he hadn’t. He felt stiff and hot and sweaty, and his breath was a labored rasp. My own throat tightened just listening to him.
By the time we made it back to Justine’s living room, I knew she’d been right in her prognosis. In fact, my own stomach didn’t feel so good. Because Wayne
wasn’t
going to be fine if he didn’t rest. He was already in relapse. That much was obvious to me.
And it was obvious to Justine.
“Take a seat, Wayne,” was all she said when she saw him coming back through the door with me and Barbara. But her dark, brown eyes were worried.
“Be fine in a minute,” Wayne assured us all hoarsely as he dropped into a corduroy chair. And I mean dropped.
It was good to hear his voice, hoarse or not.
“Apple juice?” Justine offered.
Wayne nodded mutely, only a slight tremor indicating his unvoiced question. How did Justine know he loved apple juice above all other beverages?
As Justine headed toward the kitchen, I turned to Barbara. Or maybe it would be more to the point to say that I turned
on
Barbara.
“How could you let Wayne come when you knew he’d just get sick?” I demanded angrily. Anger felt better than the worry and guilt that nipped at my conscience.
“Kiddo, 1 didn’t know,” she answered, sincerity in her eyes. “I got a flash that Wayne might collapse or something, but it was just a flash—”
“Would have come anyway,” Wayne offered up from his seat. “Gotta help you with this thing.”
“Oh, sweetie, I know you want to help, but it’s not worth your getting sick over—”
“Or your getting killed?” he cut in.
I flinched. But at least his mind was still working. And his voice sounded better.
“So your dowser found water?” Justine asked Barbara as she returned with a tall glass of apple juice for Wayne.
“How’d you—” Barbara began, then stopped herself. It was nice to see Barbara on the other end of irritating intuition for a change.
Justine laughed. “The water tower in the park?” she guessed. Or maybe she knew.
Barbara nodded.
“We all have our own, unique talents,” Justine declared.
Barbara looked like she still wanted to argue that the dowser could have found our murderer. I could see it in the way she pulled her head back. Wow, a psychic fight. I sat down in the other corduroy chair next to Wayne to watch.
But Wayne was the one who spoke next.
“Long as I’m here,” he prefaced, turning his face to Justine, a face that had more color in it now, I was glad to see. “Wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”
Justine nodded, lowering herself onto the ottoman across from us. Barbara crossed her arms and sat down on the floor next to her. She was lucky not to fall over. Maybe it was yoga or something. I certainly can’t cross my arms and seat myself on the floor at the same time.
“Who was the Silk Sokoloff that you saw?” Wayne asked Justine. That was a good question.
I looked at Justine as she looked up at the ceiling for a while, thinking out her answer.
“I could tell you Silk was a joyous individual who crusaded for the rights of outsiders in society,” she began. “And I’d be telling you the truth.” She paused. “But then I could tell you that Silk was a wounded, lonely woman who craved attention and would do anything to get it, except really involve herself on a gut level. And that would be the truth too.”
Wayne nodded.
“I could also tell you that Silk loved goofin’ on people, that sometimes she hurt folks doing it. But another truth was that she loved people, loved interacting on a superficial level, loved playing, loved flirting.” Justine paused again. “Silk loved living.”
“Then why did she die?” Wayne asked.
“I just wish I could tell you,” Justine answered, her voice rising an octave. And I believed her. Her face had grown solemn under Wayne’s questioning. And focused. Barbara and I might not have been there. “Sometimes I think Silk just goofed on one person too many. But then I can’t imagine anyone really hating her. And someone did…” Justine rubbed her arms, her deep voice trailing off. “I keep trying to figure out who. But the intuitive process isn’t an exact science. It’s about feelings, symbols, flashes. Guesses. And none of them tell me who killed Silk.”
“How about the guesses?” Wayne asked.
Justine rolled her shoulders and stared at the ceiling again.
“Guesses are guesses,” she told him finally, bringing her eyes back down to face him. “You’d like me to guess. So would Chief Wenger. So would your Kate. Denise keeps at me too. Like 1 could just snap my fingers and pull the murderer’s name out of a hat. But it doesn’t work that way, folks. My guesses have included almost everyone that was in the room that day, just like Kate’s must have. They’re no better than anyone else’s.”
“Okay,” Wayne conceded. “But someone was angry with Silk, agreed?”
It was Justine’s turn to nod.
“Who’s anger material?” he asked.
“All of us,” she answered. “We all have anger ready to ignite, given the right stimulus.”
“But some more than others,” he guided her gently.
She closed her eyes.
“Yes,” she said when she opened them. “Tory Quesada is an angry person. And she admired Silk, but she wanted to be Silk more than she wanted to admire her. I don’t mean that Tory wanted to be bisexual. I mean she wanted to be the star attraction. And she was just the backup when Silk was around, angel or no angel.”
“Angel?” Wayne prompted, his voice confused.
“Oh, that’s right,” Justine muttered, a small smile lighting her face for a second. “You haven’t met Rogerio. Tory channels Rogerio.”
“But does she really?” I threw in. I couldn’t help it. I had to know.
Justine shrugged again. “Just because I’ve never felt Rogerio’s presence doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. Like I said, we all have our unique talents.”
“Rich McGowan feels angry to me,” Barbara threw in.
“Me too,” Justine agreed quickly. “Though I really think he’s angry at the work he has to do. He’d like to be angry with us, but he’s not really. On the other hand, that’s just another guess.”
Justine rose from the ottoman and threw her arms into the air.
“See what 1 mean!” she rapped out, her deep, soothing voice now a prophet’s voice of doom. “I’m guessing and making you suspicious. I’m angry. You’re angry. Gil Nesbit’s angry. Denise is angry. For all I know, Artemisia and Elsa are angry as hell. But I don’t really know. I’ve felt flashes of anger from everyone.”
“Including your nephew, Zarathustra?” Wayne put in.
Justine stopped, stock-still, arms abandoned in the air.
Then she slowly lowered her gaze to meet Wayne’s, along with her arms.
“My nephew may look angry,” she said quietly. “Being a tall, black teenager will give that impression, no matter what. But the boy’s no killer. He’s a seeker.”
Talk about your feelings and flashes. I could feel a wave of energy from Justine as she spoke. Or maybe I smelled it. But for a moment, there was something there in the air, quivering. Something I couldn’t define. Was it fear?
“Silk goofed on Zarathustra, it was true,” Justine went on, her voice even lower. “She kept on harassing him sexually, once she was sure he wouldn’t respond. That was her m.o. But he figured her out. We talked about it.
It still bugged him, but not enough to kill her, believe me. That boy is all talk, folks. Scary talk coming from a great big, black kid, but talk all the same.”
I wanted to believe her. But she was afraid. Or something. The tension was still quivering in the air.
I opened my mouth to ask a question I hadn’t even formulated, and Justine’s doorbell rang.
All four of us jumped. Time had been suspended. And there are no doorbells in suspended time.
“A client,” Justine announced briskly after an endless instant went by.
The three of us stood and rushed toward the door. I felt vaguely guilty as we did. Guilty for taking Justine’s time? Or just for suspecting her nephew? I still didn’t know by the time we got to the door and changed places with a too-thin woman whose white skin looked anemic instead of porcelain. Hadn’t Barbara said Justine was primarily a medical intuitive? I hoped so for the thin woman’s sake as we passed her.
“Lunch?” Barbara proposed, once we were back in my Toyota.
“No,” I answered as Wayne said, “Yeah.”
“You need to be in bed,” I told him.
“Only if you’re there with me,” he countered. “And I know the minute I go to sleep, you’ll be out checking up on some suspect.”
“He’s got you pegged, kiddo,” Barbara threw in helpfully.
I glared at both of them.
“A nice little sit-down lunch isn’t going to hurt Wayne,” Barbara added.
So we ate lunch. Thai. Wayne managed two bowls of coconut soup and an infinite number of questions. Questions neither Barbara nor I could answer.
“Tory really an angry person?”
Shrugs from both Barbara and me.
“How about this Rich McGowan?”
More shrugs. But the spring rolls were good.
“Justine was worried about Zarathustra,” Wayne stated.
We all agreed on that one, at length, over curried vegetables and seitan. But Barbara and I disagreed over the source of Justine’s fear.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted slowly, but added anyway, “I’ll bet she thinks Zarathustra did it.”
Wayne growled something through some rice, which sounded affirmative.
“No,” I argued, not admitting that 1 didn’t know what I was talking about any more than Barbara did. “I think Justine is afraid that the police will pin this murder on Zarathustra, whether he did it or not. She’s afraid of the perception of Zarathustra as a murderer, not the reality.”
“Angry teenager,” Wayne threw in. I didn’t know if he was agreeing with me or Barbara.
“Exactly,” Barbara pressed, laboring under no such doubt. “Angry teenagers kill people.”
“See, that’s what I mean,” I shot back. I could feel the blood filling my face. “It isn’t fair. You’re talking a stereotype here, and Zarathustra is a real person. And you’re probably not the only one. That’s just what Justine’s afraid of!”
There was a short silence as Wayne and Barbara digested my words and a little more rice with curry sauce.
“Still, kiddo—” Barbara began.
“I want to meet him,” Wayne declared, cutting right through our argument.
“Huh?” I said, startled.
“I want to meet this Zarathustra,” Wayne expanded.
“Maybe I can see something in him that you two haven’t.”
Barbara and I looked at each other. Maybe he
could
see something we couldn’t in Zarathustra. But did interrogation of suspects come under the category of dangerous to Wayne’s health? You betcha.
“Kate,” Wayne muttered. “I just want to talk to the kid, not run triathlons with him.”
I told myself I should have seen it coming as we climbed back in the Toyota to go to Zarathustra’s house. Or if not me, Barbara should have seen it coming. She was the one who was supposed to be psychic. Because once we’d opened the subject, of course Wayne wanted a chance to view the evidence for himself. And Wayne was determined. Pneumonia or no pneumonia, Wayne was going to talk to Zarathustra.