Read A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Online
Authors: Jaqueline Girdner
A Cry for Self-Help (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (8 page)
“He owned a five-and-dime in San Ricardo,” Gary put in. “But people came to him anyway whenever they had a splinter or a rash, or whatever.”
“All this prejudice about Hispanic immigrants,” Liz said, shaking her head sadly.
“Latinos, Mom,” Gary corrected. But Liz just kept going.
“And ‘Americans’ so concerned about keeping the Hispanics out of California. Who do they think built California?” she said, her voice gaining speed and anger. Her eyes narrowed. “It was the Hispanics who built the roads, the missions, the ranches. The Hispanics civilized this state—”
“And killed most of the Native Americans in the process,” Gary muttered. But that didn’t stop Liz for a moment either.
“Then once the Hispanics had civilized California, these so-called Americans came in like swaggering hyenas and cheated the Hispanic-Californians out of their land grants. And now they have the nerve to call Mexicans wetbacks. The stereotypes these people perpetrate!” She slapped our carrot table resoundingly. “My father was a Mexican immigrant, my mother English. My father was the epitome of integrity and hard work. He was an absolute gentleman. Never hit my mother in his entire life—”
“Dad could have taken a few lessons—” Gary mumbled.
“Or us kids either,” Liz pressed on. No wonder Diana and Gary were relatively quiet, I decided. Growing up, they probably never got a chance to get a word in edgewise. “A completely gentle man. If anyone had a temper, it was my mother. And she came from Great Britain. Not that she hit anyone, either. But she knew how to yell. She was no more the British stereotype than my father was the Hispanic.” Liz paused for a moment, her eyes going back to their normal width. “Sorry to climb on the soapbox. But these false stereotypes are truly evil.”
I nodded in agreement. She was certainly right on that one.
We crunched our salads and slurped our soups without speaking for a while. The spinach-pine-nut salad was surprisingly good, very sweet and sprinkled with herbs I couldn’t identify.
Liz looked at her watch once she had finished her own salad. “Gotta go, kids,” she announced abruptly, and rose from her zucchini. She fished through her wallet for some bills to hand to Gary.
“But Mom,” he objected, either to her leaving or to the money. I couldn’t tell which.
She turned to us with a sheepish smile.
“Sorry about the diatribe,” she apologized. “I know I talk too much. Ought to have better social skills at this point in my life. But…” She shrugged. “Anyway, I hope to see you again. I’ll try to keep my lip buttoned the next time.”
“No, no,” I assured her honestly. “The stuff about California was really interesting.”
She tilted her head as if to test my sincerity, then smiled crookedly and grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“Well, thank you,” she said and then exited Quels Legumes! through its asparagus columns.
“Sorry about Mom,” Diana murmured once Liz was gone. “She’s been really moody lately.”
“Menopause, I’ll bet,” Gary threw in before I could say I didn’t think “Mom” had said anything worth apologizing for. “Not that she’d ever mention it.”
It seemed to me that Liz might actually be a little old for menopause, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
“She’s hardly done any chain-saw sculpture in the last few months,” Diana went on, her round eyes narrowed ever so slightly with concern.
“Yeah,” Gary agreed. He looked up at the roof. “The last one I remember was the dolphin. And that had to be four months ago at least.”
Wayne and I looked at each other while Gary and Diana continued to discuss their mother’s sculptures. How were we going to bring the subject back to murder?
As it was, Diana took care of the conversational direction, just as the waiter brought our main dishes.
“I’ve been trying to think who Sam knew in the wedding class,” she told us as my focaccia was set before me on a giant white china plate. Her voice was perfectly calm, perfectly serene.
I took a bite of the soft white bread smothered in sautéed mushrooms and artichokes. Delicious, but not any better than the take-out at Grace Baking, even considering the giant white plate, the accompanying artistically trimmed raw veggies, and the giant price.
“Sam was the kind of person who’d met everyone,” Diana went on, ignoring her own linguine with fresh vegetables and herbs. “Every place we went people seemed to know him. He used to say he was embarrassed because he couldn’t remember all the people who remembered him.”
“He wasn’t a man you’d forget easily,” I offered.
“That’s true,” she agreed eagerly. She bent forward. “He really was bigger than life in many ways. And people felt a sense of intimacy with him, just meeting him.” She smiled, then closed her eyes for a moment as if savoring the memory.
I thought of what Yasuda had said—you either liked Sam or you didn’t.
Diana’s eyes popped open again. I shifted on my eggplant seat guiltily, hoping she hadn’t heard my thought.
“Anyway,” she said, her voice a little firmer, “I know Sam knew Ona and Perry. And Yvonne. And Nathan of course.”
The minute she said Nathan’s name her skin pinkened and she seemed to lose track of what she was saying.
Uh-oh. It looked like Emma was right. Diana was more interested in Skyler Junior than Skyler Senior. Talk about motives. Add that little bit of information to the inheritance that she’d probably lose if she dumped Daddy for his son—
“And Martina,” she went on, her voice barely a whisper. She was looking down at her plate now. “And maybe Emma.” She looked back up again. “Did you know Emma Jett was really born Emma Jones. She changed her name.”
“How’d you happen to know that?” Wayne asked. I started at the sound of his deep voice, he’d been quiet so long.
“Oh, I knew her sister in high school.”
And that was about it for useful information. It seemed that Diana didn’t know much more about Sam than we did. Maybe even less, I thought, seeing Yvonne’s brass vases in my mind as we stood up half an hour later.
Now it was time for Wayne and me to offer our apologies, since we had to leave. That is, if we wanted to make the firewalk wedding that Yvonne had arranged for that evening. And I, for one, did.
I knew people who’d firewalked, but I’d never actually seen it done. I was ready. To watch, that is. Not to walk.
By the time we got there, the sun had set, and twenty feet of brightly burning coals lit up the backyard of yet another friend of Yvonne O’Reilley’s. She seemed to know as many people as Sam Skyler.
“Oh, I’m so energized,” she was telling the members of the Wedding Ritual class, who stood in the back of the crowd waiting for the ceremony to begin. It looked as if everyone from the original class was there, everyone but Diana. And Sam of course.
“Such bliss,” Yvonne went on. “Raoul and Mary met at a firewalk, you know. And now…” She gestured toward the glowing coals. I shivered in the evening breeze, glad for its coolness.
Then suddenly, the bride and groom appeared at the beginning of the molten runway. I was relieved to see that the groom had rolled up the legs of his tuxedo pants and that the bride’s white dress only came to her bare knees. On both their faces there was a focus of intention I’d rarely seen before.
The crowd went silent as a man in black joined the couple. The minister. I could see his collar in the glow of the coals.
“Are you ready to prove your commitment to your love by walking together barefoot over hot coals?” the minister asked.
“Yes!” two voices shouted as one.
Then the bride and groom took one last look at each other, gripped each other’s hands, and proceeded to walk the length of red-hot coals. They walked at a deliberate, unhurried pace, their eyes directed upwards and their mouths moving, uttering words I couldn’t hear.
I could hear the sizzling of the coals though, the mutterings of the onlookers, and from somewhere near the front of the crowd, a female voice sobbing “my baby.” The bride’s mother, I assumed. Or maybe the groom’s.
When they reached the end of the burning runway, cheers rang out from the crowd. And a man with a garden hose washed the bride’s and groom’s feet.
It was a long time before the minister, now at the end of the runway, could speak over the whoops and ululating of the wedding guests.
“You have both demonstrated your commitment to each other,” he finally shouted. “I pronounce you wife and husband.”
That brought on more cheers and a surge of barefoot men and women following the fiery path the bride and groom had taken. One by one they walked, looking up and mouthing inaudible words as they strode across the burning coals to hug the bride and groom. A reception line I was not about to join.
This brought more shouts and whoops, and finally everyone who was going to walk the coals had, and the bride and groom were hugging everyone in sight, coals or no coals.
Jubilant cries rang through the air. Even I felt the urge to walk on those coals, to feel what it would be like to challenge the laws of physics. Luckily, someone was hosing down the coals by that time.
As the sounds of celebration caressed the night air, another sound came sliding into my consciousness. Not far behind me, someone was crying.
I turned to see who it was.
Nathan Skyler stood, bent over, weeping into his hands.
And there wasn’t a finger puppet in sight.
- Nine -
“Maybe the groom will walk over hot coals, but will he take out the trash?” Ona joked. Her eyes were ignoring Nathan’s distress, but even in the semidarkness I could tell by the stiffness of her soft, round body that she was aware of him. And trying in her own way to defuse his grief.
Perry put his arm around Ona and squeezed as Wayne and I laughed weakly at her joke, keeping our eyes averted from Nathan’s sobbing figure.
In fact, most of the members of the Wedding Ritual class seemed to be trying to ignore Nathan, to give him a chance to regain control. Martina Monteil stood up straight and tall, baring her white teeth in her perfect model’s smile and made conversation with Campbell Barnhill two feet away from her putative fiancé, just as if he and his tears didn’t exist. Campbell wasn’t smiling back, though. And Emma Jett shot a look at Nathan and then at Martina before crossing her arms and stomping away in her lace-up boots. Maybe she was looking for Yvonne, who seemed to have disappeared completely. Tessa and Ray were huddled together, Ray’s tall figure bent over Tessa’s short one. Ray seemed to be whispering into Tessa’s ear as he kept his gaze in Nathan’s direction.
“Would you walk over hot coals for me, honey?” Ona asked Perry, her strong voice even louder, but still not loud enough to drown out Nathan’s sobbing.
“Any time,” Perry answered on cue. “As long as we do it in cyberspace.” But I could see his heart wasn’t in the fun of it. His deeply shadowed eyes were filled with concern as they furtively flitted Nathan’s way.
Nathan’s weeping grew even louder. His head was bent into his hands and he was pressing his palms onto his thick glasses so hard I was afraid he’d break them. Even some of the remaining fire-walkers and guests of the bride and groom who had lingered outside were beginning to notice. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I turned to go to him. But Wayne was just a little faster than me.
He strode over and put a hand on Nathan’s heaving shoulders. Nathan turned to Wayne and threw his arms around him, as if clutching a giant bag of groceries. The scene might have been comical, Nathan’s shaggy head slumping onto Wayne’s broad shoulders, almost knocking Wayne over in the process. It was so easy to forget how tall Nathan really was, even taller than Wayne. But the crying made the scene anything but comical.
“Nathan?” I began, wanting to make contact. “What’s going on—?”
“Nathan!” a sharp voice interrupted. The voice of a drill sergeant. Sergeant Martina Monteil. “What do we do with grief?”
Nathan’s head jerked up as if yanked by a string.
“I…I…” he tried.
“I asked you what we do with grief,” Martina reminded him, her voice as cold as her narrowed hazel eyes.
Slowly Nathan withdrew from Wayne and turned to Martina. He stuck out his ring finger.
“Grief into growth,” he whispered, the tears still shining in his eyes.
“Louder,” Martina ordered.
“Grief into growth,” Nathan barked, his voice raw.
I turned away. This was their business, not mine. And if this was the Institute’s approach to grief—even just Martina’s—I wanted nothing to do with it.
By now, most of the people from the wedding party had disappeared inside Yvonne’s friend’s house. Bright light shone from its windows, weakly illuminating the backyard. And celebratory shouts and laughter drifted out to the members of Yvonne’s class standing outside, nearly alone with the remains of the firewalk. Even hosed down, there were glints of embers here and there. And the lingering smell of smoke.
Wayne joined me and Ona and Perry once more, his face troubled. Porch lights came on, adding another source of light to be swallowed up by the darkness outside.
“Possible to talk to you about Sam some time tomorrow?” Wayne asked Ona.
“Sure,” Ona replied easily. “How about lunch? Perry can cook.”
Nice of her to offer, I thought. But Perry just nodded.
Ona looked behind her. I followed her look. Martina had taken Nathan a few yards away, and by the look of his fingers flashing in the air, was putting him through his paces.
“You know, Sam Skyler really was a murderer, no matter what she says,” Ona whispered. “There’s a big difference between being found not guilty and
being
not guilty. And he really was an insensitive jerk for a man who claimed to be a guru of interpersonal skills. ‘Guru’ in his case meant bullshitter, if you ask me.”
“Skyler kept telling Ona to lose weight,” Perry put in. “Even though she’d come to terms with her size. Totally destroying all the work she’d done. Or at least he tried to. But it didn’t work. Ona likes her body.” He paused to give her soft shoulders an extra squeeze. “I certainly do too,” he added.
Ona smiled and leaned into his embrace, looking as fluffy as a county-fair bunny for a moment. I smiled too. Perry obviously adored his fiancée, all two-hundred-plus pounds of her.
“The sad thing is,” Perry went on, “Skyler really did have some amazing skills. I’ve seen him mesmerize people, bring feelings out of them they never knew they had, mediate between them. If he’d been more compassionate, he could have really healed people. And I’m not saying there weren’t some who were helped by his methods. Still, if someone didn’t immediately agree with him and adore him, they were in big trouble. Skyler could be incredibly destructive then.”
I nodded my understanding in the cool night air. I’d known some Sam Skylers before. And hadn’t liked them any more than Ona and Perry had.
“And even most of the people who were initially helped by his work became his seminar junkies anyway,” Ona added. “Where I come from, mental health doesn’t mean following your guru around like a puppy for the rest of your life and wiggling your fingers.” Her voice lowered again. “So these suckers’ inner feelings were released. Where did they go from there? Did their lives really improve? Did they get better jobs, better relationships?” She shook her head. “Just look at Nathan, wiggling his fingers around while his heart’s breaking. Does he look self-actualized to you?”
I turned to look at Nathan but found myself instead staring at Ray Zappa. My heart hopped in my chest. I hadn’t heard him step up behind us. I raised my eyes to his long, handsome face. The look on it was not friendly.
“Anyway,” Ona threw out, “if you wanna talk about this guy some more, come over to my house tomorrow—”
“What is it with you two, anyway?” Ray Zappa interrupted.
“Are you talking to me?” Ona demanded, her hands on her ample hips, her pretty baby-face that of an angry baby now.
Ray stepped back as if shoved by her glare. But even Ona didn’t stop him for long.
“No, I’m not talking to you,” he told her. He pointed clearly at me, and then at Wayne. “I’m talking to these two busybodies. Sam Skyler’s death is police business and everywhere I go I see these guys acting like they’re the police. And they’re not. Got it? These two are civilians and don’t have any right to be nosing around this Skyler business—”
“Are you telling me I can’t talk to civilians when I want to?” Ona demanded. “Last time I heard, the United States of America was still a democracy.”
She spread her feet wide and crossed her arms. She might have looked like a fluffy bunny a minute ago, leaning into Perry, but now she’d become a tiger. Perry stood behind her, seemingly ready to jump in if he was needed. But he clearly wasn’t. Ray Zappa looked down at Ona’s solid figure, a riot of conflicting emotions crisscrossing his long face. Anger. Shame. Frustration. Fear. Conciliation. Then anger again.
“Look, lady,” he said finally. I could hear his voice shaking with the effort to keep from shouting. “I don’t have a problem with you, okay? We’re all in this class together. And up till a few days ago, everything was just fine. But these two.”
He swiveled his head toward Wayne quickly before Ona could intervene. “You, Caruso, what’s your angle?” he barked.
Wayne stood as firm as Ona had. Only he stood silent, arms at his side, staring right back at Ray Zappa, without saying a word. He’d had answers for Park Ranger Yasuda. But he didn’t have a single one for Ray Zappa. Was it because he wanted to keep Diana’s name out of the discussion? Or was it some kind of macho posturing? If it was the latter, Ona had already won the prize in that category.
“We just want to know what happened,” I explained on Wayne’s behalf. “That’s all. If people want to talk to us, they can, can’t they?” I had meant my voice to be peaceful, reassuring. But I guess it didn’t come out that way.
Ray zipped his head back around in my direction.
“And you,” he snarled, pointing a finger a few inches from my nose. Maybe Martina had been giving him Institute lessons. But I doubted it. It just looked like a regular old finger of accusation to me. “Always at the scene. I don’t care what happened. You’re always there. That means something in my book.”
“It means I’m unlucky, that’s what it means,” I objected, feeling the adrenaline rushing through my body now. “Do you think I like—”
“Then, how come you don’t just stay out of it?” he demanded, his face swooping down until it was as close to mine as his finger had been. I could smell alcohol and the acid of stomach upset on his breath now. “How come you keep—”
“I don’t just keep—”
“Yes, you do—”
“No, I don’t—”
And then suddenly, Wayne was standing in the small space left between us.
“Calm down,” he suggested quietly. “There’s no reason to—”
“Hey, buddy,” Zappa snapped then, sounding anything but calmed. “You wanna go for it, huh? Go a couple rounds, huh?”
Bile rose in my throat as testosterone filled the night air. Ray Zappa had a temper on him worse than Campbell Barnhill. And he wouldn’t just shake his fist, he’d swing it, I was sure. And Wayne had just put himself in the line of fire. I knew it was for my sake. I understood that. But didn’t Wayne realize that I was safe from the worst of Zappa’s anger and he wasn’t? Zappa would never hit a woman, especially a small woman, but a big guy like Wayne?
“I’m fine,” I said in my softest, most soothing voice, trying to wedge my body between the two men. But there just wasn’t any space left. Not even air. And sure enough, Ray Zappa’s fists were clenched and rising. “I’m sure we can talk this all out—”
“Ray Zappa,” came a voice from behind him. It was hushed, but firm. Very firm. “Just what kind of mischief are you up to now?”
Ray’s fists lowered slowly, then his whole body seemed to deflate, from the shoulders down. He turned to face his bride to be, an effort at a grin on his face.
But Tessa Johnson wasn’t grinning back. I stared at the black mortician in the dimness, shivering a little at the severe expression. She reminded me of a teacher I’d had in the fourth grade. Her name had been Johnson too, I suddenly remembered. Tessa Johnson even looked like the long-ago Mrs. Johnson, different race notwithstanding. Small but erect, there was no way anyone was going to mess with her. Anyone. My stomach began to settle down.
“Just asking a few questions,” Ray said defensively.
“In what capacity?” Tessa demanded.
“I…”
“You are just as much a civilian here tonight as the rest of Ms. O’Reilley’s guests,” Tessa pointed out. I wished I’d thought of that one earlier. “And I would expect a man of your caliber to realize that.”
“Right,” Ray agreed, shrinking just a little more.
“I’m afraid apologies are in order,” Tessa said quietly, turning our way, her dark eyes serene and confident.
“Sorry, guys,” Ray mumbled.
Wayne mumbled something back.
I even opened my mouth to apologize, then realized Tessa had probably meant Ray needed to apologize, not us. “At least Wayne and Kate care,” came a new voice out of the darkness. A small, trembling voice. Nathan Skyler was back with us now, his eyes swollen behind his glasses, but no longer crying. “Someone should care what happened to my father. He wasn’t a guru. He wasn’t a fraud. He was a man, my father. And…”
And Nathan was crying again, his hands over his face.
Tessa put her hand gently on the young man’s arm.
“Of course someone should care,” she agreed. The calm sincerity in her voice was enough to bring Nathan’s hands away from his face. “Each life is precious in its very own way, your father’s no more and no less than anyone else’s.”
“Yes,” Nathan said, his tears vanishing. He looked down at Tessa with something close to awe on his furred face. “Yes, that’s exactly it. Thank you.”
“Anyway, the guy fell,” Emma added, loud and clear, an inch or so away from my ear. My heart did another little gymnastic feat, stopping my breath for an instant. Where had she come from? She glared at us, bits of moonlight glinting off the brass in her nose and ears. “Or else he jumped.”
“My father did not jump,” Nathan shot back, his voice still trembling, but angry. My mind even supplied the phrase,
anger into achievement,
words I was sure Martina would elicit from Nathan any minute. But when I looked around me, I didn’t see Martina. Campbell was there, however, a couple of feet away from Emma, and advancing.
Yvonne was coming our way too. Bearing down on us like a heat-seeking missile.
“Are you all blissed out?” she caroled, her curvy face shining with happiness.