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

friend. Even if she was psychic only at the wrong times.
    I checked on Wayne, filled his water and apple juice bottles, and told him I was going out with Barbara.
    Wayne wasn’t even suspicious. He just looked up at me, his eyes soft and weary under his low brows, and assured me he could take care of himself. I almost told him about Silk then. Almost. Instead, I turned around and got my last-ditch spare box of fruit-sweetened, carob-oatmeal cookies to lay on the nightstand with his water and apple juice. I was surprised Barbara hadn’t found the cookies the night before. Or maybe she had and decided they weren’t worth it.
    Guilt was thudding in my brain like a bad rap group by the time Barbara and I got to her VW. But not loud enough to completely distract me from self-preservation.
    “Let’s take my car,” I suggested. When she objected, I turned the suggestion into an order.
    The drive to Justine’s might have been slower than the one the day before, with Barbara at the wheel, but I was sure it was safer. I chose to park next to the curb, not on it, but the walk up the stone path to Justine’s redwood-shingled cottage was far too much like the previous day’s for my liking.
    At least Justine was alone. Well, almost. She had just ushered us into her living room, minus the circle of chairs, when Linda Underwood came bounding in, the tabby and the marmalade racing after her.
    “Oooh, Kate, Barbara,” she greeted us. “Good to see you. How’s your kitty?”
    Since Barbara didn’t have a cat, I was pretty sure the question was directed toward me. But I hadn’t told her I had a cat, had I?
    “C. C.’s fine,” I said tentatively.
    “Oh, good,” she chirped. “Cats are sensitive to these things, you know.”
    Then she turned and left the room before I could ask her what things, and how she knew I had a cat, and whether she was as spacey as she acted.
    “Linda can be very crisp and focused when she needs to be,” Justine declared. Shades of Barbara. I hadn’t asked anything aloud.
    I stared at the two women for a moment, one delicate, elegantly dressed woman of Asian descent, another large, broad, blue-jeaned woman of African descent. Then I saw the same little twist of amusement shaping their eyes.
    “Not two of you,” I groaned aloud. I figured I might as well. They’d probably heard my unvoiced groans already.
    Justine and Barbara laughed together, but then both got serious again at the same instant.
    “You’ve come about Silk,” Justine announced.
    Barbara nodded.
    I wondered why they were bothering to talk at all. Maybe it was for my benefit. I was actually beginning to sweat under their intense gaze.
    Justine gestured us to pair of comfortable, well-padded, corduroy armchairs positioned just perfectly so we could look out the windows into Justine’s wisteria-covered bower. Justine lowered herself onto an ottoman across from us and began to speak without further prompting, gently and quietly.
    “My friend Silk was a professional irritant,” she began. “She loved to be outrageous. If a UFO landed, she’d be first in line to hitch a ride.”
    “Was that why she chose bisexuality?” Barbara asked.
    Justine smiled and nodded, while I wondered if one could “choose” a sexual identity. I’d always thought it chose you.
    “The capacity to be attracted to members of both sexes is something no one talks about, but on some level, I do believe we all take it for granted.”
    I found myself nodding too, more in response to Justine’s hypnotic tone than in agreement with her opinion. I’d have to think more seriously about her actual proposition. Justine registered my nod, and probably my reservations, and went on.
    “It’s very brave to admit confusion about sexual identity.” Justine put her hand on her stomach and took a deep breath. “But Silk made a production of her own bisexuality. She made advances to just about anyone who moved, including Zarathustra. She wasn’t really serious, but