Murder on the Astral Plane (A Kate Jasper Mystery) by Jaqueline Girdner

thought maybe Justine could help me, but—”
    I broke off before anyone could interrupt me. My voice was no longer slow, and it certainly wasn’t calm. Actually, I was babbling. And Wenger was leaning forward ever so slightly, taking in everything I’d said.
    “A Murder Type,” Kettering announced eagerly, his utterance in capitals as if he’d just discovered a new solar system. Or maybe a new disease.
    “Kate isn’t a murder type,” Barbara spoke up from beside me. I was surprised by the strength in her voice. “Jeez-Louise, you guys, you’re oversimplifying these typing systems. None of them predict behavior absolutely.”
    “At best, they might indicate an inclination, not a certainty,” Justine threw in, standing a little taller.
    I was beginning to feel better. At least I had some friends among the living.
    “Like cats,” Linda added. “People say that all Siamese do this and all Persians do that, but it’s not true—”
    “Fer Pete’s sake, we’re not cats, Ms. Underwood,” Wenger cut in. “Much as it might seem a sight more appealing than being a policeman on a day like today.”
    “Sir, can I finish interrogating?” Kettering whispered for the crowd.
    “Whaddaya think, you’re going to force that one to admit her enneagram number?” Wenger demanded, pointing at Artemisia, whose head was tilted to the side now, her mascara-smeared eyes traveling around the ceiling. “Or him to tell you his Myers-Briggs letters?” Now he was pointing at Zarathustra, who glared angrily back at the tip of Wenger’s finger. “These folks have had enough.”
    I closed my eyes and let the relief sweep over me. I wasn’t the only one. I could feel bodies relaxing in the sticky heat of the kitchen, even hear the sounds they made as spines stretched, lungs started pumping again, and necks cracked. I licked my dry lips and wiggled myself into a pre-standing position.
    “I only have one more question,” Wenger said quietly. “Which of you did it?”
    The room went silent as everyone froze. I let my sore bottom touch the cold, hard kitchen floor once more.
    “One of you did it—” Wenger began.
    “Or one of the two ladies that left,” Kettering contributed.
    “Kettering,” Wenger ordered after a long sigh, “go wash that bump on your head.”
    Lieutenant Kettering left the room. Within minutes it became obvious why Wenger had dismissed him. He didn’t need Kettering’s help to bully us. He could do just fine on his own.
    He accused us all, both individually and jointly, of uncontrollable jealousy, simmering hatred, a multiplicity of reasons for revenge, fear of blackmail, and the feigning of insanity. I wasn’t sure if the last particular lob had been meant for Artemisia or for all of us.
    And after that, he got tough. Not that it did him any good. He got about as much out of us as Kettering had with his personality interrogation.
    Finally, even Wenger was tired.
    “Ah, get out of here,” he boomed, waving his hands at us. “I’m sick to death of this. Give your fingerprints to Yuki and make sure she sees your licenses on the way out. And don’t leave town.”
    Everyone who was sitting stood up tentatively. Those who were standing looked longingly at the door.
    “Ms. Howe and Ms. Underwood,” the chief amended, “you two stay here. The rest of you, scat.”
    We scatted. Even Artemisia.
    Nobody had to remind Officer Yuki of her duties. O’Dwyer blocked the door that led to freedom, only allowing each of us passage once Yuki had conscientiously rolled our fingerprints and scrutinized our licenses and other forms of ID. Finally, I joined Barbara outside, and we climbed wearily into her Volkswagen bug.
    The car thunked as Barbara roared off, the bug’s wheels finally off the sidewalk. I breathed in the Volkswagen’s distinct aroma of burnt rubber, metal, incense, and old food. It smelled great.
    “Do you think Officer O’Dwyer has a crush on Officer Yuki?” Barbara asked as she rolled