Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (14 page)

I resisted looking at Barbara. Did Alice realize she had just handed us a possible motive for Dan? Or for herself?

“What’s Dan got to say about Sheila’s death?” I asked.

Alice’s eyes came back into focus. She frowned as she shrugged her shoulders. I tried again.

“Has he accused you or threatened you—?”

Alice sat up straight in her chair. “Of course not!” she interrupted indignantly. “Dan’s not like that.” She paused and ran her hand through her hair again. “He’s just a little upset right now, you know?”

I nodded. I knew. I knew.

Barbara tried for a while after that. Was Dan violent? Was Dan a drug abuser? Had Dan hated his wife? Alice answered no, no and no, her voice growing tighter on each negative. It wasn’t any use. In Alice’s eyes Dan was just a nice guy caught up in terrible circumstances. If she saw another side to him, she wasn’t talking about it. And now she was angry at Barbara, angry at what Barbara’s question implied.

“How about your friend Meg?” Barbara asked, switching gears abruptly.

“What about her?” Alice demanded. So much for a friendly, willing informant.

“Oh, we were just curious,” I interjected quickly. “She’s such a talented artist.”

Alice looked from me to Barbara and back again. I held my breath. Alice’s features softened. I let my breath out.

“She’s unbelievable, isn’t she?” Alice said, her friendly smile back in place. She pointed to the wall in back of us. “Look, that’s one of hers,” she said.

I turned and saw a bold abstract in sea-green, lavender and hot pink. It was Meg’s style, all right. My neck twinged. I turned back to Alice.

“Meg is so smart, you wouldn’t believe it,” Alice rattled on enthusiastically. “She does all kinds of art, types a hundred words a minute and invents these dynamite vegetarian recipes. I keep telling her she ought to do a cookbook.” She shook her head slowly. “The things that woman can do with tofu—”

At the word
tofu
, my stomach emitted a long, loud growl. I blushed as I glared down at it.

“Whoa,” Barbara said, laughing. “That beast ought to be in a cage.”

Alice giggled along with her, then suddenly cried, “You must be hungry!” and jumped out of her chair.

“What a doof I am,” she said. “I didn’t even think to offer you guys food.” She waved her hands. “Up, up!” she ordered and led us protesting into the kitchen.

Her kitchen was as elegant as her living room. Clean and white, it was furnished with a wicker-and-glass table surrounded by more wicker chairs with turquoise pillows. A four-by-six painting of pale green and dark purple grapes, which had to have been done by Meg Quilter, hung on the far wall.

“Let’s see,” Alice said, peering into the refrigerator. “I’ve got carrot sticks, apples, yogurt, low-fat cottage cheese—”

“Please, you don’t have to feed us,” I objected. Now I was really embarrassed.

“Sit, sit,” she said, waving one hand at the wicker chairs, her eyes still on the contents of the refrigerator. “And whole-wheat bread.” She closed the door. “I’ve even got peanut butter hidden,” she finished in a whisper.

She stared at us inquiringly as we sat down. Was she waiting for permission to break out the peanut butter?

“Sounds great,” said Barbara.

I sneaked a quick glance at my friend’s weakly smiling face. Barbara’s idea of “great” was barbecued pork ribs, onion rings and beer, not whole-wheat and peanut butter. Carrots with nothing on them were her idea of cruel and unusual punishment. She must have had more questions she wanted to ask.

“Okay,” said Alice, opening the refrigerator again. “Let’s party!”

She set carrot and celery sticks, fruit, bottled Calistoga water and bread on the table, all the while telling us about the diets she’d been on.

“…Weight Watchers, Kemper Rice Diet, Nutri/System, Beverly Hills, Jenny Craig, Oprah’s diet.” She crunched a celery stick. “For all the good it did Oprah,” she said and pulled a tiny jar of peanut butter from a lavender bin beneath the sink.

“Only for you guys,” she said wistfully as she added the jar to the pile of food on the table.

“I’ve been going to Overeaters Anonymous for six years,” she added, taking a seat. “Right now I’m about forty or fifty pounds over my ideal weight—”

“But you’re gorgeous!” I burst out. Already, I couldn’t stand all this dieting. And I was only hearing about it.

“Huh,” she snorted. “I’m a card-carrying chubbo. At least I am now. But I won’t be for long! I’m gonna do Pritikin. Meg’s gonna help me. Low fat, high fiber, whatever. She knows how to cook it.” Alice smiled at us. “Dig in,” she said.

We dug in. And talked. But no amount of talking could convince Alice that she was beautiful the way she was. As I spread peanut butter on whole-wheat, I thought about sending Wayne over. He loved fat bottoms. At least he loved mine. I took a bite. On second thought, I decided to keep him just where he was.

Barbara nibbled on a piece of bread without enthusiasm as she led the conversation back from weight-loss to Dan and Sheila Snyder. Alice was good-natured enough to answer Barbara’s questions, but she didn’t say anything we hadn’t heard before. Barbara fidgeted in her wicker chair for a while, then stood up just as I had taken my last bite of apple.

“Oh, Jeez!” she cried, looking at her watch. “I’m late for an appointment.”

I played along, although I was pretty sure that her appointment was with her idea of dinner, something far more tasty and fattening than Alice had to offer.

“We owe you a meal,” Barbara told Alice on the way out.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Alice answered cheerfully. She waved a quick goodbye and closed the door behind us.

“So, why’d Vesta make a salt pie?” Barbara asked as we climbed down the rickety stairs. Damn. I had forgotten all about the pie.

But I did my best to explain it on the way home. Then I told her how Dan Snyder had rammed my car.

“Jeez-Louise,” she murmured. “Maybe he is nuts.”

“Alice thinks he’s a nice guy,” I said sarcastically.

“Yeah, but Alice is nuts herself,” Barbara argued, apparently missing my sarcasm. “Anybody who spends that much time thinking about food has gotta be.”

I scanned Barbara’s petite body with a sideways glance. “People who can wear anything less than a size ten aren’t allowed opinions on diets,” I informed her. “They’re lucky they’re allowed to live.”

She leaned back in her seat and laughed. Then she complained about Felix until I dropped her off at her car.

It wasn’t until I opened the door to my own dark house that I thought seriously about Alice’s obsession. If there was a way murder could have lost Alice forty pounds without dieting, I would have been the first to suspect her. But killing Sheila couldn’t have done that. Still, it had freed Dan from his marriage, I reflected. Freed him to get to know Alice again.

As I reached for the light switch in the entryway, I heard a noise from the living room. A faint, whistling sound. I left the lights off and tiptoed in. Wayne was curled up in a fetal position on the couch, snoring softly. A surge of affection warmed my body as I looked down at his sleeping face. Sometimes I felt that I would do anything to protect him, anything to protect our relationship. The rapture of love was a powerful motivator. The warmth dissipated as my mind turned back to Alice. What would she do for the relationship she wanted?

I shook off the thought. I liked Alice. I didn’t want to suspect her. And there were plenty of others to suspect. Dan, Meg, Iris…

I blew Wayne a quiet kiss and tiptoed from the living room into my office. The stack of Jest Gifts paperwork was still waiting for me. I sighed and dug in.

It was almost midnight when I heard Wayne’s footsteps behind me. Then I felt his warm hands on my shoulders.

“Love you, Kate,” he growled softly. “Sorry I’ve blown it.”

I swiveled my chair around to look at him. Under his heavy eyebrows, his eyes were filled with something that might have been sadness. Or maybe defeat. His broad shoulders drooped.

“Mom’s…” he began. He faltered, dropping his gaze.

“I love you, too,” I said softly as I stood up. He needed to know that before he went any further.

He lifted his eyes. “She’s difficult,” he said, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “I know she can’t stay here. But I can’t just abandon her.”

I could feel my own shoulders droop. He was right. He couldn’t just abandon her. But she had to leave.

“What about getting an apartment for her, like you said before?” I suggested. “Or a house…” There was no response.

“She wants me to go with her,” he said softly.

I stiffened. Of course, that was what she wanted. My fists clenched. I wasn’t going to let her. I wanted to scream “No!” But I just clamped my jaw down and nodded.

“Thought she was well enough to take care of herself,” he continued brusquely. “Not so sure anymore.”

“How about a nurse?” I tried. “Maybe a paid companion.”

“Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. His shoulders straightened a little. “There’s got to be a way.”

I put my arms around him. He embraced me tightly, his chin resting on the top of my head.

“We’ll figure it out, together,” I whispered into his chest.

We held each other for a few more heartbeats. The intimacy was worth the strain on my sore neck. Wayne must have sensed that strain, because he broke away. Then he bent over to look into my eyes.

“I’ll do something,” he promised, his voice deep and gravelly. “Soon.”

That was good enough for me. I took a deep breath.

“Race you to the bedroom,” I whispered. I winked lasciviously.

His face softened into a smile. Then he began running.

He won the race. But I jumped him once he made it to the bed. Wayne was ticklish. A surprising trait in a man who was a karate black belt and a former bodyguard, but true nevertheless. I stripped off his socks before he had time to stop me and tickled the undersides of his feet. Instantly, he was giggling and flailing helplessly.

Than I attacked, pulling off the rest of his clothes. Despite his heavy breathing, I had a feeling he wasn’t fighting me very hard. His warm mouth landed on mine and I gave up the struggle, offering him all the resistance of a vat of warm Jell-O. I sighed happily as he unbuttoned my shirt. He kissed my bare shoulder gently, and at that moment I knew how C.C. felt when she purred. His mouth moved downward and I heard a thumping sound. My heart?

No. It wasn’t my heart.

I heard more thumps. Wayne’s head jerked up.

“Keep it down in there! I’m trying to sleep!” came Vesta’s voice from the other side of the wall.

Wayne and I groaned simultaneously.

At least we did something simultaneously, I thought as Wayne rolled away from me. I turned on my side and watched his muscular body deflate.

“Meet you at the Holiday Inn?” I suggested.

Wayne groaned. Or laughed. Actually, I think he did something between the two.

Vesta thumped the wall again.

I pulled off the rest of my clothes and snuggled up to Wayne under the covers.

Two hours later I awoke, cold and shivering. The covers were crumpled at the bottom of the bed. I crossed my arms over my chest and rubbed them, watching the almost full moon through the skylight, thinking about murder. Who had killed Sheila Snyder? Dan? Alice? I looked over at Wayne, his body silvery-white and beautiful in the soft moonlight. Would I kill for love? I considered Vesta, sleeping in the next room. It was a thought.

A bad thought, I lectured myself. Violence didn’t solve anything, et cetera, et cetera. I looked back at Wayne. He sighed in his sleep.

I smiled and kissed his forehead gently, then his mouth. His eyes popped open.

“Ka—” he began.

“Shhh,” I warned. I put my finger across my lips, then across his. He kissed my finger. It wasn’t long before we were back where we had left off.

We made love in an exquisite agony of silence, then lay together, whispering in the moonlight.

Then he told me that he’d sold his first short story.

I threw my arms around him and squeezed, murmuring congratulations wildly, trying not to shout.

“When?” I asked finally.

“Last Wednesday,” he whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I couldn’t,” he said quietly. “Not with Mom here, not with this issue between us.”

“Oh, sweetie,” I sighed and kissed him again.

Vesta didn’t wake up the second time either.

My alarm rang at eight the next morning. I stretched and instantly regretted it. My neck and shoulders were still sore. There was a note on the pillow next to me.

“I had to go,” it read in Wayne’s nearly illegible handwriting. “I made you oatmeal. I love you.”

A hot shower helped my poor body. I dressed and walked into the kitchen, feeling good. Vesta sat at the kitchen table, stirring a cup of black coffee. She looked up at me and glowered.

I smiled and sat down across from her. A pot of oatmeal was at my place. I lifted the lid and a wisp of steam escaped. Wayne couldn’t have left too long ago. Maybe he was checking out apartments for Vesta, I thought happily.