Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (11 page)

I looked behind me. Vesta stood there in a low-cut black dress, her hand lifted in a coy wave. She was smiling at Sergeant Feiffer, a smile very much like his own faint leer. She cocked her head and blinked her eyes. I suppressed a giggle and turned back to the sergeant.

“Introduce me to your handsome friend,” Vesta ordered, her voice as thick and sweet as honey.

My handsome friend was beginning to look a bit pale.

“Sergeant Tom Feiffer, Vesta Caruso,” I said quickly. “Anyway,” I went on, “you can take my word that Barbara is completely incapable of murder. If she was thinking of murder, she wouldn’t have yelled at the woman beforehand—”

“Why don’t we
all
sit down and talk,” suggested Vesta, her tone implying activities other than sitting.

“This won’t take long, ma’am,” Feiffer said with a nervous glance in her direction. He turned his eyes on me. They were serious now.

“I’ve got two things to say,” he rapped out. “One, keep out of this case. It could be dangerous. Two, tell everything you know to the San Ricardo police.”

Then he gave me one last furtive smile and strode out the front door.

I turned to Vesta. Her homely face was downcast. I felt an instant of sympathy for her.

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, glad she had driven Feiffer away.

She turned her back on me and stomped down the hall to her room.

I stepped up to Hayburners and launched the ball.

I had moved the four and six horses across the finish line and was aiming at the back target that would bring the number three horse in, when the phone rang.

Damn. I let the ball dribble down the drain hole and walked to the phone. I was too late. Vesta had already answered.

“Who is it?” I asked her.

I didn’t like the way Vesta was taking over answering the phone. Suddenly I wondered how many phone calls she had taken, how many phone calls I had missed, how many friends and business associates she had alienated.

Vesta ignored me.

“Who is it?” I asked again, louder this time, hoping I wouldn’t have to battle her physically for possession of the receiver.

I didn’t. She turned and held the whole phone set out to me.

“It’s Detective Utzinger from the San Ricardo Police Department,” she said happily. She grinned and added, “It’s for you.”

VESTA WASN’T KIDDING me. Detective Utzinger was indeed on the line. In a monotone, he told me that Detective Sergeant Oakley wanted to see me. Today. My stomach gurgled an objection, then began serious churning.

I made an afternoon appointment and set the receiver back down gently. Vesta scrutinized me with curious eyes.

I turned on a big smile. “The police said they could use my help. Isn’t that great?” I said enthusiastically.

Vesta squinted suspiciously. I kept my smile in place. She snorted, then turned and headed back down the hallway. Only then did I put my hand on my churning stomach.

A couple of Tums later, I took a seat at my desk and concentrated on Jest Gifts. As I processed orders, I wondered: What was Sheila Snyder really like? Had her husband loved her? Or hated her? Or both? I didn’t want to think about Wayne. The Snyders were much more interesting.

I was still thinking about the Snyders two hours later when my stomach growled, this time demanding an early lunch. A tofu burger popped into my mind, the kind they sold at the health food store. Salivating, I considered the possible connection between health food stores and vegetarian restaurants. Would the people at the health food store have known the owners of the Good Thyme Cafe?

It was worth a shot.

It took me ten minutes to get to Life Foods. I hurried through the door and began loading a shopping basket. Oatios went in, then bok choy, a loaf of raisin-millet bread and soy milk. I made my way past the bins of grains toward the refrigerator cases. An oversized man in a navy blue suit held a mobile phone to his head as he walked down the aisle in front of me.

“I got basmati rice,” he boomed. “Of course I got organic! What else do you want?”

Who was on the other end of the line? I wondered. His sick wife? Or maybe his boss?

“Amazake? What the hell is amazake?” he shouted into the phone. Probably not his boss.

I edged by him as unobtrusively as possible.

“I’m not yelling,” he yelled.

I grabbed a tofu burger and some carrot juice and took another aisle back to the front counter. I could still hear the man yelling into his phone. Now he was looking for lentils.

I joined the line at the register. It was a good long line. For once, I was glad.

“Anyone here ever eat at the Good Thyme Cafe?” I asked conversationally.

A tanned woman in jogging shorts near the front of the line answered first. “I went there with a friend a couple of times last year,” she told me. “Horrible place, bad vibes.”

A tall, bearded man behind her disagreed. “I love the Good Thyme!” he exclaimed. “The prices are reasonable and they give you lots of food. Great burritos. They’re huge.”

“But the food’s so yucky—” the tanned woman objected.

“Anyone know the owners?” I asked quickly before she could go on. I didn’t really want to hear about the food.

“It’s a husband and wife who own it,” the man said. “The wife does the cooking. The husband runs the cash register. They have some college kids waiting the tables.”

“I don’t know how they stay in business,” the tanned woman added, shaking her head. “My friend said she’d never once seen all the tables filled there. It’s no surprise with that yucky food. And the man at the register is too damn surly if you ask me—”

“Wasn’t the lady who just got murdered one of the owners?” asked a woman with a long black braid. Her eyes were wide and staring my way.

No one answered. More heads turned in my direction.

“Was she really?” I said innocently, hoping my rapidly reddening face didn’t betray me. “How terrible.”

“She was strangled,” confirmed the young, well-muscled man behind the cash register. There was a hint of relish in his tone. “It was in the paper.”

“I’ll bet her husband did it,” said the tanned woman. “The guy’s got bad vibes.”

“God, I hope they don’t go out of business,” whispered the bearded man.

Then the line went silent, all neighborliness suddenly gone. I could hear the man with the mobile phone again over the clicking of the cash register keys. He was shouting about aduki beans by the time I left the store.

I gobbled down my tofu burger as I drove home. It was a good thing I finished it, because Barbara was waiting for me when I pulled into my driveway. She gave me two minutes to put my groceries away, then dragged me back outside.

“I’ve got directions to Meg’s house,” she said, jumping in my Toyota.

I sighed and slid into the driver’s seat.

“Where to, madam?” I asked in my best chauffeur’s voice.

“Richmond District, San Francisco,” she replied. She grinned widely. “And don’t spare the horses, James.”

Barbara didn’t stop chortling until we were halfway across the bridge. Then her face got serious.

“I talked to a friend of mine at Berkeley,” she announced. “She took calculus from Gary Powell. She says he’s a damn smart guy, even if he does carry those goofy crystals around all the time.”

“And…” I prompted.

“That’s it from her,” Barbara told me, frowning. Then her face brightened. “But I talked to an artist friend of Felix’s who knows Leo. He said that Leo owns an art gallery. In his opinion, Leo can be a real jerk, though he does give new artists a chance in his gallery. And he said that Leo has a drinking problem…”

I had a nose. I had already smelled Leo’s drinking problem. But I didn’t interrupt Barbara as she took the tiny threads of information she had gleaned about Leo and wove them into multiple murder motives. Whatever the present state of her psychic powers, she still had a great imagination.

I spotted the Victorian building that housed Meg’s flat just as Barbara came up with motive theory number forty-seven, Sheila’s inopportune discovery of Leo’s impotence.

Meg’s building stood across the street from Golden Gate Park. She buzzed us in when we rang the bell. Then we climbed the two flights of steep stairs to her door. No wonder the woman was so skinny. Climbing these stairs had to take the weight off.

“The living room’s a mess,” Meg whispered, greeting us at her front door. Her silky blond hair was in braids today, her sea-green eyes as round as ever. I looked into her pale face and wondered if she’d look any older if she wore makeup. In the dim lighting of the hallway she looked about twelve years old.

“That’s okay,” I told her. I tried a reassuring smile. “You should see my house.”

She shrugged her rounded shoulders and ushered us in.

A “mess” did not fully describe her living room. It wasn’t really messy, just full. Very full. She had more stuff in there than I had ever seen in one person’s house.

The volume of artwork alone was staggering. Stacked against one wall were abstracts in bold primary colors. One in blues and reds was in progress on an easel. A drafting table nearby held pen-and-ink drawings. I moved forward for a closer look. What had appeared to be a woman’s silhouette at a distance resolved itself into a dark, hellish hive populated by hundreds of naked, misshapen human forms pressed together and writhing like earthworms. Ugh. Not my type. Not my type at all. I diverted my gaze to a nearby painting, an immense and lifelike representation of a sensuous four-foot carrot lounging against a background of lacy parsley. Better. Much better. This was my idea of art. I saw a refrigerator-sized eggplant behind it, and the corners of a dozen or more canvases behind the eggplant.

“Are these all your work?” Barbara asked. Her voice held an uncharacteristic note of awe.

“Nothing’s really very good,” Meg mumbled, shrugging her shoulders again.

“But they’re wonderful!” I objected. “I love the carrot.” Meg blushed. At least it put some color into her face.

“And these drawings are, uh…really interesting,” Barbara added, holding up another pen-and-ink drawing, a sister hive to the one I had looked at earlier.

I stepped away from the drawing and tripped over an oscilloscope, then noticed the rest of the electronic equipment scattered around the room. And there were books. Rows and rows of books in shelves, and in piles on the floor.

“Do you live here alone?” I asked.

Meg looked down at her toes and nodded. Then she sniffled. If I had all her talent I wouldn’t be so damn shy, I told myself, jealous for a moment. But then again, what if her shyness went hand and hand with her ability to focus on her work?

“Would you like some tea?” Meg asked diffidently.

“That would be wonderful,” I said with the undue heartiness I usually save for children.

She led us into a kitchen that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. It was far tidier than the living room—no jumble of books and artwork here, just a lot of notes under magnets on the refrigerator. And a scattering of appliances on the gleaming, yellow-tiled counters. A canvas depicting over a yard of sliced purple cabbage hung on the wall next to the gas stove. Barbara and I sat down at an uncluttered yellow Formica table while Meg put on the teakettle.

“I made pumpkin bars,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “No fat, no dairy.”

“So, that’s the wonderful smell!” Barbara warbled.

A few minutes later, I decided the pumpkin bars not only smelled good, they tasted good too. They were sweet and chewy, with currants and cloves as well as cinnamon and nutmeg. I had almost forgotten why we were there as I took a bite of my second one. But Barbara hadn’t.

“So, have you worked with Alice for very long?” she asked Meg.

“Just off and on,” Meg said quietly, her eyes lowered. “I just do temp work. The paintings bring in a little money.”

I should hope so, I thought indignantly. I hoped she was being paid what they were worth. She couldn’t be a very good saleswoman.

“But you’re pretty close friends with Alice, aren’t you?” Barbara pressed, leaning forward across the table.

“She likes me,” Meg said, lifting her eyes. There was a lilt of wonder in her voice as if she couldn’t quite understand why Alice might like her.

“Of course she does,” I said encouragingly. Somehow Meg brought out the third-grade teacher in me.

“Do you think Alice is in love with Dan?” Barbara asked.

Meg tilted her head as she stared at Barbara, wide-eyed. “Dan?” she repeated.

“Dan Snyder,” Barbara said impatiently. “You know, Sheila’s husband.”

“Oh,” Meg said. She lowered her eyes again and sniffled. “Alice never mentioned it. Not that she’d confide in me necessarily.” She wriggled in her chair. “I just don’t know,” she finished.

Barbara’s interrogation of Meg was beginning to feel like child abuse to me. I shot her a cautionary look, and she settled back in her chair with a martyred sigh. She took a bite of her pumpkin bar. It was my turn.

“Have you known Gary and Paula long?” I asked.