Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

The outdoor patio was off to the right of the coffee house, surrounded by low wooden fencing with a latched gate. One woman sat there, visible from her bosom up.

Pretty strawberry blonde, hair pinned loosely, mid- to late thirties, wearing a long, gauzy sleeveless smock the color of daybreak.

Behind her, through open French doors, Petra spied groupings of well-put-together women sitting indoors, laughing, sipping. The West Valley was ten degrees hotter than the city. Torrid. But Emily Pastern wanted an al fresco meet.

Petra climbed the stairs and the woman watched her as she unlatched the gate.

“Ms. Pastern?”

Pastern nodded, gave a small wave.

So far, so good.

As Petra made it to the gate, she saw that Pastern had chosen the table farthest from the restaurant. The pale blue top was worn over fashionable jeans and white clogs. Pastern had milky skin, lots of freckles, eyes the color of the iced tea or whatever it was that filled her brandy snifter.

Lying at her feet was why she wanted the patio. Needed the patio.

The biggest hunk of canine flesh Petra had ever seen. Blue-brindle and massively boned in repose, ears clipped to nubs. Body and face a mass of loose skin and acromegalic bone. Head shaped like that of a hippo, resting on the flagstone floor.

Big as a hippo.

She stopped as the dog glanced up. Drooled. Checked Petra out with tiny, red-rimmed eyes. Intelligent eyes. Lord, the thing was huge. An upper lip flapped. Teeth fit for a shark.

Emily Pastern bent in her chair and whispered something to the dog. The beast’s eyes closed and it returned to sleep or whatever it was protective dogs did during their downtime.

Petra hadn’t budged.

“It’s okay,” said Pastern. “Just sit down on this side.” Indicating the seat farthest from the dog. “She’s fine if you don’t try to get too friendly with her too fast.”

The dog cocked an eyelid.

“Really,” said Pastern. “It’s okay.”

Giving wide berth to the behemoth, Petra settled in a chair.

“Good girl,” Pastern whispered to the dog.

Petra held out a hand. “Petra Connor.”

“Emily.” Pastern’s fingers were long, cool, limp.

The dog remained inert. Making sure her foot was nowhere near its mouth, Petra tried to get comfortable. “Is that Daisy?”

“No, Daisy’s home.”

You’ve got two of these?

“How do you know about Daisy- oh, my phone tape. No, this is Sophia, Daisy’s little sister.”

“Little?” said Petra.

“Figuratively speaking,” said Pastern. “Birth-order-wise. Daisy’s a ten-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She weighs fifteen pounds.”

“A little lighter than Sophia.”

Pastern smiled. “Sophia likes her food.”

“What breed is she?”

“Mastino. Neopolitan Mastiff.”

“All the way from Italy.”

Pastern nodded. “We imported her. She’s great protection.”

“Does Daisy get to ride her?”

“No, but my kids do.”

Doggy chitchat relaxed the woman. Time for business. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Emily.”

“Sure.” Pastern looked over at the French doors. A slim, androgynous waiter came over and Petra ordered coffee.

“The daily blend?”

“Sure.”

He left looking puzzled. Pastern said, “They’re not used to that. No interrogation. Most people who come here are picky about their coffee.”

“Half-caf, seventeen drams of soy foam, one-fifth Kenyan, four-fifths Jamaican, and a sprinkle of Zanzibar allspice.”

Pastern displayed pretty teeth. “Exactly.”

“I don’t care as long as there’s octane in it,” said Petra. An oversized mug of something dark and hot came and the waiter took a few seconds balancing it on the table. Bit of a challenge; the top was fashioned of hand-laid mosaic tiles. Blue and yellow and green shards arranged in graceful florets and grouted carefully. Petra ran her fingers over the contours. Nice work, but impractical.

“Like it?” said Pastern. “The tiles.”

“Very nice,” said Petra.

“My work.”

“Really? It’s lovely.”

“I don’t do much art anymore,” said Pastern. “Three kids, my husband’s an orthodontist.”

The first fact seemed to explain things, the second didn’t.

Petra said, “Busy.”

“You bet… would you tell me this, Detective: How come no one talked to me six years ago? My friends, the other women who were at the theater, were interviewed.”

Because the D who worked the case was an alkie burnout who didn’t follow through when he didn’t reach you the first time.

Petra said, “Ms. Jaeger and Dr. Casagrande?”

Pastern’s penciled brows arched. “Sarah’s a doctor?”

“She’s a psychologist in Sacramento.”

“Isn’t that something?” said Emily Pastern. “She always talked about becoming a therapist, but I never thought she’d actually do it. Guess Sacramento was good to her.”

“How long’s she been there?”

“She and her husband moved up there a while back- not long after Marta was killed. Alan’s a lobbyist and they wanted him full-time at the capital. How’s Sarah doing?”

“Haven’t spoken to her yet. Haven’t been able to reach Melanie Jaeger either.”

“Mel’s in France,” said Pastern. “Got divorced and moved there a couple of years ago. Finding herself.” She stirred her tea some more. “No kids, she’s got mobility.”

“Finding herself how?” said Petra.

Pastern pushed fine, ginger hair away from her face. “She thinks she’s an artist. A painter.”

“No talent, huh?” Petra’s palm caressed the tabletop. Trying to communicate: as opposed to you, Emily.

“I don’t want to bad-mouth, we were all friends, but… guess I’m the only one still in the Valley… so why wasn’t I talked to?”

“From what I could tell, the detective couldn’t reach you.”

“He called when I was out and left his number,” said Pastern. “I called him back.”

Petra shrugged.

“Six years,” said Pastern. “Is there some reason it’s been reopened?”

“No dramatic evidence, I’m afraid. We’re just trying to be thorough.”

Pastern frowned. “Are you from here?”

“Originally, Arizona,” said Petra. This was getting personal. Lonely woman? Or was Pastern resisting?

“I’ve got cousins in Scottsdale- ” Pastern stopped herself. “You don’t care about any of that. This is about Marta. Do you have any theories who killed her?”

“Not yet. How about you?” said Petra.

“Sure do. I always thought it was Kurt. But no one asked my opinion.”

Petra’s hand clamped around her coffee mug. The ceramic was scalding and she freed her tingling fingers. “Why do you think that, Emily?”

“I’m not saying I know he did it, it’s just my feeling,” said Pastern. “Marta and Kurt’s marriage had always seemed off.”

“In what way?”

“Remote. Platonic, even. Like they never went through that initial passion stage most people start out with. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” said Petra.

“Everything cools down eventually, but with Marta and Kurt you just felt there’d never been any heat in the first place. Not that Marta ever said anything. She was German, had that European reserve.”

“Remote,” said Petra, remembering Kurt Doebbler’s flat affect. Two cool people. One had ended up beaten to a pulp.

“I never saw them kiss,” said Pastern. “Or touch, for that matter. Then again, I’ve never seen Kurt display anything in the way of emotion. Even after Marta died.” She bent toward Sophia, kneaded the dog’s neck folds. “He still lives there, you know. In the same house. Seven blocks from mine. After we heard about Marta, I brought over food, offered to help any way I could. Kurt took the plate at the door, never invited me in, never thanked me.”