Fat-Free and Fatal (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (18 page)

“Hmm,” muttered Barbara, pretending to think. “It has possibilities.”

As everyone laughed, my mind went back to Paula’s act of revenge. Killing a parent caught in the act of hitting a child might be an even greater revenge for an adult who had survived her own abuse. Was this a motive? I remembered what Ann had said about most mental disorders arising from childhood abuse—

The glass doors burst open before I could finish the thought. Paloma swept into the room, her eyebrows raised in what looked like surprise.

“Dad, did you leave food out on the counter?” she demanded. Uh-oh. Maybe the look was anger.

“I didn’t think they’d eat tofu, for God’s sake,” Gary muttered as he rose from his lounger and sprinted out the door. “That was for dinner, a recipe of Meg’s…”

Paloma followed him out. His voice died away as he disappeared from view.

“Dogs,” Paula explained, rolling her eyes. “My kids adopt them.” She stood up. “I guess I’d better untangle the mess.”

Barbara and I stood too. The interview was clearly over.

“I wish you luck on your investigation,” Paula said as she led us back to the front door. Her voice was considerably warmer than it had been when she’d showed us in. “Keep in touch,” she added and opened the door to let us out.

I was bursting with questions as we headed toward the car. What had stopped Paula Pierce mid-sentence when she was talking about the murders in Oregon? And Gary—why had he needed to assure her that he hadn’t killed Sheila? Then there was the child abuse issue. Could that be—

Barbara opened the door to the Volkswagen. All the questions left my mind as thirty pounds of compressed dread sank to the bottom of my stomach. Barbara was driving. How could I have forgotten!

I got in the car and placed my hands over my eyes. Barbara revved the engine and took off.

We made it across the bridge without getting hit. But there were a few near misses. At least that’s what they sounded like.

“Leo’s gallery is just above San Ricardo,” Barbara announced cheerfully as she took 101 north. “I hope they’re open late. It’s almost five.”

“Fine,” I mumbled.

“I haven’t been able to get hold of Ken on the phone,” she continued. “All I get is his answering machine. I’ve left messages, but he hasn’t returned them. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

A horn blared somewhere close by. I shuddered.

“Well?” prodded Barbara. “What do you think?”

“I think you should keep your eyes on the road,” I answered.

She laughed merrily. I was glad that somebody was happy.

We parked in front of Leo’s gallery two squeals and three honks later. I didn’t bother to kiss the ground after I got out of the Volkswagen. I knew I’d just have to get back in and let Barbara drive some more once we were finished here.

The gallery was located in a storefront, sandwiched between Ed’s Hardware and Jeanne’s Art Supplies. That was certainly convenient for the exhibiting artists, I thought. But I wasn’t sure how good a location it was for drawing the kind of people who would
buy
art.

The turquoise neon script in the window read “Conn-Tempo Gallery.” As Barbara pushed the door open I wondered what the name meant. It was probably a stylish way to say contemporary, but the words “contempt” and “con” as in conning someone into buying expensive artwork did enter my mind.

“Wow,” I whispered once we were inside.

The small room was stuffed with artwork. It couldn’t have been much larger than my living room, though it did have a high, accommodating ceiling. It had to. It was filled to the brim with paintings, sculptures, ceramics and twisted neon. Naked ladies, abstracts and heavy metal predominated. Heavy metal sculpture, that is. A ten-foot monstrosity in the center of the crowded room combined all three themes. It was definitely metal, definitely abstract, and I could tell it was female by the seven steel breasts that ran diagonally up its flank. The other sculptures clustered around it were harder to place. Altogether, the room looked like a mad scientist’s storeroom. An artistic mad scientist, of course.

“Look at this,” Barbara hissed from the nearest wall.

I made my way past a few more metal monstrosities and a twisted neon object that reminded me of those things people used to make out of balloons at county fairs. Barbara was pointing at the corner of an oil painting depicting a woman naked to the waist, holding a whip. The proportions were off, giving it an unpleasant, skewed perspective. The name painted boldly in the corner was “Leo.”

“Do you think he did that perspective on purpose—?” I began.

“Shhh,” warned Barbara, nudging me in the ribs. She pointed across the room.

Leo’s short, plump behind was facing us. He was in a black sweatshirt and tight black jeans today. Not a pretty sight. He was pressed up against a young blond woman almost a head taller than he was.

“Come on, baby,” he said, aiming a kiss toward her lips. “Give me some tongue.”

She turned her head to the side and pushed him away.

“Chill out, Leo,” she snapped. Then her voice softened. “Okay?” she asked.

Leo shrugged. “Later, baby,” he said amiably.

He turned and spotted Barbara and me standing in front of his painting. He stroked his beard, then tossed his long black hair out of his face with a flick of his head. It was a strangely coquettish movement.

“Interested in the painting?” he inquired as he stepped in our direction.

“No—” I began.

“Yes,” Barbara contradicted.

I smelled Leo when he was within a yard of us. Eau-de-vino, his usual scent. He stepped nearer, his closely spaced eyes intent on Barbara’s face. The smell of partially metabolized alcohol was overpowering.

“That’s my work,” he announced proudly.

“Is it really?” Barbara trilled. “It’s so…”

Even Barbara couldn’t finish that one.

“Interesting,” I supplied.

His glance landed on my face, then continued down my body. “Haven’t I met you somewhere before?” he asked with a suggestive wink.

“Of course you have,” I answered impatiently. “The vegetarian cooking class.”

His face paled, highlighting the cerise tracings of broken blood vessels on his nose and cheeks. For a moment I wondered if he was going to pass out. But he recovered quickly.

“I couldn’t possibly forget a beautiful face like yours,” he cooed, his skin color evening out to a uniform red once more. “Or yours,” he added, turning to Barbara. He stroked his beard slowly.

Ugh. Neither his words nor his odor were doing my now queasy stomach any favors.

“What can you tell us about the night of the murder?” Barbara asked without further preamble. I had a feeling she wanted to get this interview over with as quickly as I did.

Leo flinched but answered, “It was an awful night, wasn’t it? It all seems like a blur now…”

If you drink that much, everything probably
is
a blur, I thought uncharitably as he rambled on. Nothing he said was particularly enlightening. He claimed to have walked to a liquor store at the break. He said he’d never met Sheila Snyder before. And the sight of the body had made him sick.

“How about your friend Ken?” Barbara asked as he paused for air.

“What about him?” Leo shot back. His small eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking all these questions, anyway?”

“We’re helping the police,” I interjected. Barbara smiled. It wasn’t a complete lie. If we happened to find a murderer for them, that would be a help.

“Ken was with me the whole time,” Leo said. He was cooperating again, but there was a new wariness in his tone. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Where does Ken work?” Barbara pressed.

“You’ll have to ask him,” Leo told us. “I’ve got work to do.” He turned and began to walk away.

“Wait!” Barbara shouted.

Leo swiveled his head around toward us impatiently. His face was stiff.

“Has Dan Snyder been to see you?” she asked.

“Never heard of him,” Leo mumbled and accelerated his pace toward the back of the gallery. He disappeared through a door partially hidden behind a stone carving easily identified as yet another naked lady.

“Nobody’s watching,” I whispered to Barbara. “Shall we rob the joint?”

She took a quick look around, then shook her head no emphatically.

We both giggled and turned to leave. We were almost out the door when I heard the sound of running footsteps behind us. I turned and saw the tall young woman Leo had been coming on to earlier. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty. Her face was freckled and friendly, her legs long and conspicuous beneath her miniskirt.

She must have noticed my look. “He makes us wear this kinda stuff,” she said apologetically.

“Leo?” I asked.

She nodded. My body stiffened with anger. The gallery wasn’t a cocktail lounge. There was no reason to insist that she wear that short skirt. Except for Leo’s pleasure, of course.

“So what’s wrong with the old guy?” she whispered.

I looked at Barbara. She looked back at me, her eyes seeming to nod. I straightened my shoulders.

“Have you read about the murder at the Good Thyme Cafe?” I asked.

The young woman’s eyes widened.

“Leo did that?” she yelped shrilly. “Is that what that looney tunes was screaming about this morning?”

“No, no—” I began.

“What looney tunes?” Barbara asked.

“—I wasn’t accusing Leo of murder,” I finished.

The young woman looked into my face, then into Barbara’s and then back to mine. Her eyes were still wide. And now her mouth was gaping.

“Listen, we’d like to talk to you, to explain,” I told her. Her mouth closed slowly. “When do you get off?”

She turned her head to look over her shoulder. Leo was still out of sight.

“I get a dinner break once you guys are outa here,” she whispered. “Leo won’t come out till you leave. So I gotta cover for him.”

“All right,” I whispered back. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go outside and wait for you. You tell Leo that we’re going and you’re going on break. Then—”

“I dunno,” she said softly. She swallowed nervously.

“We’ll buy you dinner,” I proposed.

“Really?” she said, brightening. “Can we go to the sushi place?”

“Sure,” I agreed, forcing a smile. Raw fish had never been my favorite even before I was a vegetarian. And I was betting it was still expensive.

“That’d be cool,” the young woman said in a normal tone of voice. “By the way, I’m Ophelia.”

“I’m Kate. This is Barbara.” I made the introductions quickly and quietly.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” Ophelia promised. Then she turned and trotted to the back of the gallery.

Barbara and I hurried outside. We leaned up against the Volkswagen uncomfortably.

“I hope this doesn’t get Ophelia in trouble,” I said to Barbara.

“Job trouble or murder trouble?” Barbara asked, her own eyes worried.

Ophelia came racing out the door before I could answer.

She led us down the block to the Sushi la Rue. I wondered if my credit card was in trouble as we walked in. Dozens of Japanese and French flags that must have measured nine by six feet were hung on the walls and suspended from the ceiling between the tables. There was a man in a tuxedo playing piano in the corner. And even at this early hour, I could hear the clinking of glasses at the bar and the hum of muted conversation. It all sounded expensive to me.

“Three for dinner,” I squeaked to a slender woman also dressed in a tuxedo.

“Reservations?” she asked with a severe look.

I shook my head, really worried now. She led us to our seats at a table covered in white linen. As we sat down I saw that the top layer was actually paper. That was good. She handed us menus, recited the daily specials, then turned on her heel and left.

“So,” said Barbara, leaning across the table toward Ophelia. “Tell us about the ‘looney tunes’ who came in and screamed at Leo.”

My eyes scanned the menu as I listened for Ophelia’s answer. Franco-Nippon cuisine? I suppose the prices could have been worse. I saw sushi, coq au vin, omelets, sashimi, crepes, tempura and coquilles St. Jacques. There was even a vegetarian plate under ten dollars.

“He was this great big guy, you know,” Ophelia told us, her voice shrill with excitement.

“Diamond stud earring?” asked Barbara.

“Yeah!” confirmed Ophelia, a smile on her freckled face. “You know the guy?”

“Dan Snyder,” Barbara and I groaned together.

“He’s bad news,” I added. “Stay out of his way if you can.”

“Fat chance!” Ophelia yelped indignantly. “Leo went and hid in the back room this morning. Told
me
to take care of the guy!”

I could feel angry blood rising in my cheeks. How could Leo do that to her?

“Why do you work for that—” I censored myself. “For Leo?” I finished.

“I’m an artist,” she said diffidently. A blush crept up beneath her freckles. “He said he’d give me a show if I worked there for six months. And he pays me. Min wage, but it’s worth it if he’ll come through with the show.”