Dark Tort

To Lorraine, Marla said, “Thanks a million. Could you please show me where you’re going to put it? Just in case I want to beat a fast exit.”

“A fast exit?” cried Louise Upton, whom I hadn’t even heard come in. Under a tentlike white apron, she wore a beige turtleneck and a dark gray skirt. Her black shoes were the wide tie-up variety with sensible low heels. “Why would you be making an exit, Mrs. Korman? And since you’re one of the guests, why are you here so early?”

“Trying to help,” Marla replied under her breath, surreptitiously rolling her eyes at me.

“That’s quite a dress,” said Louise. Marla obliged by twirling in the black-fringed dress. Louise made her voice caustic. “So for Halloween, you’re going as a jellyfish?”

“You work for H&J, right?” Marla replied evenly. “Doing something? Do you really think your employers would be happy about you interrogating their guests? Why don’t you see if you can be useful somewhere else?”

“Uh!” cried Julian, as he heaved two boxes through the doorway and dumped them on the island. Sensing the tension in the kitchen, he looked from Marla to Louise Upton and exclaimed, “Wow! That’s such a pretty dress, Aunt Marla.” He nodded at Louise Upton. “You look nice, too, ma’am.”

Louise said, “Thank you, young man.”

“His name is Julian Teller,” I offered. “He’s my assistant, Miss Upton, and—”

“Yes, this is Louise Upton,” Marla informed Julian, “and she doesn’t have to wait until Halloween to be a witch!”

Why is this happening to me? I thought. But I was spared an all-out catfight by the appearance of Donald Ellis. He slid into the kitchen wearing a gray sweatsuit and high-top sneakers, his hair damp either from exertion or a recent shower.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Ellis!” I called.

“Would you please start setting up the buffet?” Louise Upton demanded of me. To Donald Ellis, she said sweetly, “Mr. Ellis, your wife had to go out to pick up a few things she forgot. She said she’ll be home before the party. Don’t worry, I’m taking care of things here in the kitchen.”

“G-g-goodness,” Donald Ellis stammered, sweeping his bright red bangs off his forehead. “Well, that’s great.”

“Maybe you want a sip of this wine I brought you, Donald,” Marla offered, pulling a bottle from her gift bag. “You could have a happy birthday now, quickly, before this witch starts swooping through this great big house, cackling and—”

The slicing look that Louise Upton gave Marla could have bisected a pumpkin.

“Oops!” Marla chuckled. “Guess I shouldn’t have been such a bitch. Hey! That rhymes! Bitch! Witch!”

But her words were lost as Donald Ellis slithered out of the kitchen, with Louise Upton fast on his heels.

“Are we having fun yet?” Julian asked.

We managed to get started on the prep. Julian busied himself unwrapping the potato puffs. I pressed cloves of fresh garlic and kneaded them into unsalted butter along with dried herbs. When the concoction was thoroughly mixed, I placed it into the refrigerator until it was time to coat the tenderloins.

“You told me to keep my ears open for things about Dusty,” Marla said, when she returned from a sneaky trip into the living room, where she’d managed to pour herself a rather hefty brandy snifter full of what looked like sherry. I certainly hoped it was sherry, because if it was brandy, we were all going to be in trouble even sooner than I’d thought possible. And also…had I asked her to keep her ears open for news about Dusty, or did Marla just imagine I’d asked her? After taking a long sip of the golden liquid, she said, “And I did. Keep my ears open, that is. Now, though, I’ve been witness to an actual event. But you won’t ask me what it is.”

“I’m asking,” I said eagerly, as I began to wash the vegetables.

“Vic Zaruski took a diamond ring back to Aspen Meadow Jewelers when it opened today. I know, because I was there, too, looking for some earrings with orange in them. Did you know there are no precious gems that are orange?” She took another slug of liquor. “Anyway, Vic talked in a real low tone, which made me edge closer to the conversation, of course. Vic said that the ring had never been worn, and he wanted to return it. ‘Please,’ he said, ’cuz he didn’t have much money. Our town jeweler, who, remember, is not the most tactful person in the universe, said, ‘So things didn’t work out, eh?’ And Vic, who needed the money from the ring, let’s remember, threw that little velvet-covered box through the window of Aspen Meadow Jewelers. Do you know how hard it is to break plate glass? Oh, well, I guess you do, Goldy. In any event, even if a diamond is the hardest substance on earth, it was still inside that little box, so it couldn’t have helped—”

I turned away from the vegetables. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Nah. There was glass everywhere, and the jeweler yelling, ‘You’re going to have to pay for that, buddy! And I don’t take back used jewelry!’ Vic was outside searching in the debris for his little box, which I guess he eventually found, ’cuz then he took off.”

“Oh, man, he’s playing the piano for the birthday party today,” I said mournfully, thinking now we had one more person not in a party mood. I felt guilty, too, because I’d precipitated the wave of glass-breaking that was now taking place in our little town. “Do you know who the ring was for?” I asked. “Dusty?”

Marla took another long pull on her drink, then smacked her lips. “Well, you know what I always say: ‘One can only presume.’ But yes, I’d say it was for Dusty.”

“Doggone,” I said, the vegetables momentarily forgotten. Luckily, Julian picked up where I’d left off.

But wait. Since Vic was playing the piano today, why couldn’t I ask him myself about the ring? How deeply had he been disappointed by his breakup with Dusty? And did he happen to catch the license plate of the SUV that supposedly tried to mow him down when he was carrying Dusty’s computer?

“And there’s more.” Marla’s husky voice indicated something of a sexual nature was about to be divulged. “Donald Ellis? Our birthday boy?” she whispered. “According to one of my friends who called after I asked for info at Creekside Spa, Donald had an affair with Wink Calhoun last year.”

I turned to her. “You’re kidding. Donald and Wink?”

Marla drew herself up. “I am not kidding, or at least my friend isn’t. She’s not the most reliable person in town, but she does pick up a lot of scuttlebutt.”

“I can’t believe it,” I said, thinking of Donald Ellis’s short stature, unappealing red hair, completely nonathletic build, and poor-me demeanor. “Did Nora know? Is she the jealous type?”

Marla shook her head and downed more of her drink. “Neither, according to my friend. Nora was and is clueless. Rich, but clueless.”

“I just hope she’s rich and generous,” Julian said.

“Maybe that’s why Wink wasn’t invited to the party today,” I commented. “Nora didn’t want to see her.”

“Wink is staff, Goldy,” Marla said, before draining her snifter. “She wouldn’t have been invited anyway.”

Julian, intent on the vegetables, said, “You never know.”

And indeed, you never do know, because when I tried to call Wink back on my cell, there wasn’t any answer. Swallowing hard, I left what I hoped was a benign-sounding message. I really needed to talk to her, and could she please meet me in the St. Luke’s kitchen the next morning, at half past eight? The christening ceremony didn’t begin until ten, but I needed to be there early because of the food. And because I want to see the expression on your face when I ask why you conveniently left out a big chunk of H&J gossip, I thought, but of course didn’t say.

As I energetically juiced the lemons for the vinaigrette, I was kicking myself for not wondering why Wink had had so much time to visit with a supposedly inebriated Donald at the H&J Christmas party. Was it possible Donald had actually told Wink that whole long story about Uriah…as pillow talk? Was it possible she’d said Uriah was always poking around at H&J because the bishop had once caught them in flagrante delicto?

I twisted the last lemon down hard on the juicer. Of course, Wink’s sex life, and what she might have done with Donald, was none of my beeswax. But I had to pose another, more troubling question: Was there any chance meek, mild Donald was “New O.,” and that Dusty had supplanted Wink, thus making Wink murderously jealous? If so, how in the world was I going to ask Wink such a thing?

I groaned. Dusty and Uriah. Dusty and Alonzo. Dusty and Donald. And then there was the client, Rock Ode, whom I was set to meet today. These were definitely too many possibilities to contemplate.

I resolved to turn my attention back to the party, even though this was becoming difficult. But then Marla announced she was going next door to visit a friend from the country club. Louise Upton was nowhere to be seen or heard. So Julian and I finally had a chance to finish the setup, uninterrupted. Better yet, we eventually mustered up pretty good moods.

At half past eleven, tall, blond Nora Ellis, looking juicy in raspberry-sherbet-colored Juicy Couture sweats, came into the kitchen looking harried. She dropped off four bottles of wine and called for Louise Upton, who made a silent appearance by the island. Nora said she was dashing up for a shower and could Louise please greet the guests? Louise responded in the affirmative, then disappeared again. If I’d been Louise, I wouldn’t have wanted to risk another encounter with Marla either. I decided not to tell Louise that Marla had gone next door.

At half past twelve, Vic Zaruski, looking solemn, knocked on the kitchen door. He wore an impeccable white shirt and perfectly creased black pants. In his right hand, he was clutching what looked like sheet music.

“Um, is this where I’m supposed to be?” he asked, smiling nervously. “I’m playing the piano for the party.”

“You’re in the right place,” I assured him. “Have you had anything to eat?”

He eyed the tenderloins and potato puffs, and shook his head. “I haven’t been hungry since, since…you know.” He lowered his voice and avoided my eyes. “Were you able to get any information off of Dusty’s computer?”

“Not yet,” I lied. “It was pretty banged up after being dropped in the street. Listen,” I said as if it had just occurred to me, “did you make a police report about that attempted hit-and-run?”

He gave me a startled glance and blushed to the roots of his mop of curly hair the color of straw. “No, I just thought…I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

“I don’t suppose you had a chance to catch even a part of the license plate.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t even see the make of the vehicle. Or whether it was, you know, black or dark green or, uh, navy blue.”

“Right,” I said. I kept my voice sympathetic. His answer felt a bit too rehearsed. Had the police spent much time with him after I found Dusty? Did they consider him a suspect? Julian was out in the dining room arranging the serving utensils for the buffet, so I said quickly, “I heard you had a troublesome incident at Aspen Meadow Jewelers.”

Vic opened his brown eyes wide. His cheeks were still flaming. “Well, I guess I need to go set up my sheet music.” He quickstepped out of the kitchen.

I didn’t get a chance to ask him any more questions before the party, nor did I feel comfortable snooping anywhere in the house. I still had to unwrap the chilled cake, a job that had to be done at the last possible moment. It was a good thing it was my final task, because once I was done, two of the three neighbor couples appeared at the back door bearing gifts. I supposed the main entrance was so imposing, nobody wanted to use it. I ushered them into Louise’s waiting hands in the living room, then hustled back into the kitchen.

As Julian and I were passing around the first platter of appetizers, Vic began playing “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts’ Club Band.” Out the front window—one of them, anyway—I could see that Richard and K. D. Chenault were arriving in separate black BMWs. A nanosecond later, Alonzo and Ookie Claggett pulled up in their black Beemer, which they parked behind Nora’s, which was also black. What, did these people all go shopping for cars together? If so, did they get a discount?

I moved into the living room with a platter of stuffed Portobello mushrooms. Richard Chenault, wearing a silvery gray turtleneck and charcoal slacks, caught my eye and nodded. He looked ragged. When K.D. saw our exchanged glance, she sidled up to me and nabbed a mushroom. Her chestnut hair was swept over to one side, and she wore a loosely cut black silk top and black pants. She looked ravishing, and I thought Richard Chenault was an idiot. Or maybe they were both idiots. K.D. whispered that she’d try to come into the kitchen to visit soon.

Unlike the Chenaults’ subdued appearance in the living room, Claggs and Ookie made a grand entrance, shouting their hellos so loudly all the guests could hear. Ookie, her shiny brown hair pulled up into a windblown coif, looked lovely in a slim black dress hemmed with a blue ruffle. Her noisy greetings to friends had caused heads to turn…and they stayed turned. I watched her for a moment as she seemed to pounce on one guest after another, like a bee buzzing impatiently from one blossom to the next.

To my great astonishment, she eventually sashayed forward, took a mushroom, and then called to Richard, “Hey, partner guy! How does it feel to have one of your associates living in a place that’s twice as big as yours?”

Richard Chenault merely pursed his lips and looked away. Had Ookie’s javelin hit its mark, or was the Chief just feeling so low about his niece’s death that he didn’t care what Ookie did?

Without missing a beat, Vic shifted into “Yesterday.”

Returning to the kitchen, I replaced the empty mushroom platter with a large glass platter that held smaller glass dishes, plus room for rows of empanadas and a glass bowl of guacamole. With a pile of napkins held snugly in my left hand, I began a lap of the enormous living room. Nora Ellis appeared, looking radiant. She had changed into a calf-length chocolate-colored corduroy jumper and matching long-sleeved turtleneck. She’d swept her blond hair up into a twist, and she wore more gold jewelry than a rap singer.

She smiled broadly until her glance fell on Ookie, whose strident voice was hard to miss. Nora’s expression became grim until she noticed I was right next to her, watching. Then she smiled.

“Empanada, Nora?”

“No, thanks. But they look wonderful.”

I was hurt, since she’d claimed to love them back at our tasting. I was about to move on when Bishop Sutherland, wearing a purple shirt and clerical collar, walked into the center of the living room. He put one arm around Nora and the other around Donald.

“My dear daughter and son-in-law have made every day in my life feel like a birthday!” he cried. Everyone clapped as Uriah hugged first Nora, then Donald, who appeared mortified, like Goofy when Mickey squeezes all the air out of him. Julian caught my eye and surreptitiously pointed to a large, elaborately framed needlepoint sign hanging on the wall behind me. It read: “Have You Hugged Your Lawyer Today?”

Once Uriah had released his son-in-law, I moved up to Donald and Nora and offered them empanadas, even though Nora had already refused them. Donald gave me a look that indicated what he really wanted was a shot of Demerol.

“Birthdays are rough,” I whispered conspiratorially.

His smile was resigned. “Yes, but consider the alternative.”

Nora’s expression hardened. “Goldy, don’t you want to make the rounds of all the guests?”

Instead of saying, “I was just getting to that,” I nodded deferentially and moved off with my tray. Nora had been exceptionally nice to me so far, and I didn’t want to ruin our chance of a supersize gratuity.

Alonzo Claggett, who looked dashing in khaki pants and a long-sleeved light blue shirt that complemented his Italianate features, olive skin, and dark curls, was talking to Marla. They were discussing tax-avoiding trusts. Bishop Sutherland was standing with them, his head leaned in to their conversation. Vic was playing “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”

Marla said, “I thought the IRS wouldn’t go for that unless the trust was irrevocable.”

“Why don’t you come over to my office sometime?” quipped Alonzo.

“Why don’t you come over to my house and see my etchings?”

“We could meet at my place in the Bahamas,” Alonzo countered.

“How about Trancas?” Marla asked. “It’s more upscale.”

“There’s always Lichtenstein.”

“But would the trip be deductible?”

At this juncture, Marla reached for my proffered tray. Bishop Sutherland drank from his glass. When Marla dipped her two empanadas into the guacamole, Alonzo winked at me. Of all the folks at H&J, Alonzo was the one person who didn’t seem broken up over losing Dusty. He’d acted upset at first, but then had bounced back with vigor. What was that about?

After Marla had finished chewing, she sucked in her cheeks and glanced in the direction of Donald Ellis, who was standing by the massive hearth. “The birthday boy looks as if he’s at a funeral.”

Alonzo followed Marla’s gaze. “He’s always like that.”

“Should I have him draw up my trust?” Marla asked playfully. “Would it cost less to have one associate do it than to have another associate do me? Oh, dear, did I just say that?” She opened her eyes wide and stuffed another guacamole-slathered empanada into her mouth.

Alonzo flashed his pearly whites. “I would love to do you, Marla. Come to think of it, Donald’s more of a generalist, while I specialize in trusts. I’d make it worth what you pay me.”

Marla finished her appetizer and assumed a disappointed tone. “You mean I’m going to have to pay?”

Only Bishop Sutherland laughed.

Alonzo and Marla moved off to greet some friends from Aspen Meadow Country Club, and I was left with Bishop Sutherland. Since caterers are fine-tuned to noticing when their guests’ moods have fallen off, I was suddenly aware that the bishop’s facial expression had turned bleak.

“Bishop Sutherland?” I inquired. “Are you okay?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head of white hair. “Not really. Birthday parties always make me feel low, the way some people say they can’t stand Christmas. It reminds them, or us, I should say, of folks who aren’t around anymore.”

I nodded sympathetically. “You seemed so happy hugging your daughter and son-in-law.”

“I’m a good actor,” he replied, then was quiet for a few uncomfortable moments, during which I didn’t know if I should leave or stay.

“Well,” I said finally, “are you missing somebody in particular?”

His shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mrs. Schulz, I’m missing somebody in particular. Today was Charlie Baker’s birthday. My poor dear friend. I miss him. When he had shingles on his birthday, one of the nurses made him a cake, and we had a party in the hospital. It was one of the best celebrations I’ve ever attended, because everyone who was there—patients, nurses, even a doctor—was there because he or she wanted to be there. We sang and laughed and ate cake and ice cream…” He sighed. “Oh Lord. I miss my friend.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave me a half smile. “Thanks. Most people don’t care about clergy…they want clergy to care for them. Sometimes I just…get real lonely all of a sudden.”

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” I said in a low voice.

“Yes, I do. But thanks for being nice.” And before I could say anything else, the bishop had moved off to visit with some people who were standing near the kitchen.

At this juncture, since neither Marla nor Alonzo seemed to want more empanadas, I moved off in the direction of the Ellises’ neighbors, who were standing near Donald beside the massive hearth.

“I’d love to have something from your plate,” came a sexy male voice from behind me. I turned, startled. “Please.”

I was facing a belt and a pair of white slacks. I looked up, up, up at a man as tall as any guy playing for the NBA. This fellow was at least six foot ten, with ink-black hair parted boyishly on the side. He wore a black shirt that matched his hair, but the effect would have been more appealing if the shirt had not had the first five buttons undone, revealing a dark, hairy chest. The guy had bright blue eyes and was drop-dead gorgeous, although it was a little hard to see his face without a telescope. And what if I trained the telescope on his chest? It would look like a rain forest. So I turned to the tall fellow’s right, where an ultraslender young woman stood. Like her tall companion, she was also quite beautiful.

The woman said, “I am Natasha Oat.” Oat? Oh, wait. Ode. So these were the famously beautiful Odes. One of the tidbits I’d learned working for the fashion photographer was that Natasha’s thick Russian accent, as much as her looks, gave away the fact that she was a model. The United States, I had observed on my former gig, imports a lot of beauty from the former Soviet Union. No doubt, modeling pays more here than it does, or ever did, over there. Natasha nodded upward. “And zis eess my husban’, Rock. He eess clien’ of Donal’.”

“I’m Goldy Schulz.” I lifted the platter of empanadas. To my great horror, Rock dipped two of his long fingers into the guacamole, then transported the load of green stuff up to his mouth, far, far away. Honestly. In the catering biz, something always happens to lower your already subterranean view of the human species.

“Rock’ eess also model,” Natasha rushed in to say, as if this explained everything.

“Goldy Schulz,” Rock boomed from above, “did Nora give you the key to her wine cellar?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, go ask Donald for it. Tell him I said it was okay. Then bring us a bottle of ’49 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. A thirty-fifth birthday is a time to celebrate!”

“Well!” I replied, swallowing. Could this really be the “New O.” of Dusty’s journal? Somehow, I doubted it very much.

“Are you going to get that key, or not?” demanded Rock.

“Let me just go, uh, uh…” I turned too quickly, and the bowl of ruined guacamole hemorrhaged down the front of Bishop Uriah Sutherland’s purple shirt.

“Oh my God!” I cried, then reddened, remembering that this was a clergy shirt I’d just wrecked. “Oh God, I’m sorry!” I plunged on. Shut up, I ordered myself, and used the napkins from my opposite hand to dab at Uriah’s chest.

But Bishop Sutherland was laughing, thank…well, heaven. He’d managed to snag the bowl before it had fallen to the floor, although all the rest of the green stuff was now plastered on his shirtfront like green clay. And now that wet clay was slithering downward. The bishop replaced the glass bowl on my tray and took the napkins from my hand. As he deftly wiped huge globs of guacamole off his shirt, I wondered what I was going to say to him besides sorry, sorry, so sorry, I’ll bet this doesn’t help your emotional issues with birthdays.

K. D. Chenault saved me by walking up to us. “Oh, dear, Goldy, looks like somebody goofed!” She smiled hugely. “Why don’t you offer me your last empanada there, and introduce me to this fellow whose shirt just got wrecked?”

From my tray, I handed her a small glass plate and one of my remaining napkins. She took both carefully with her left hand so she could have her right free for shaking Uriah Sutherland’s right hand, the one not holding the green-smeared napkins.

“K.D.,” I began, but then became confused, probably by everything that was going so badly. Maybe I’d go lock myself in that wine cellar. “Excuse me! Doctor Chenault, I should say. This is Bishop Sutherland.” I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. “Bishop Uriah Sutherland. I would have thought the two of you would have met by now.”

“Glad to meet you, Katy!” Bishop Sutherland said, his tone friendly. “I actually haven’t met—”

But that was as far as he got, because K.D. gasped and dropped the glass plate I’d just given her. She covered her mouth with one hand and her cheek with the other. Bishop Uriah beamed, as if he often had such a volcanic effect on women. But K.D. was wide-eyed, gaping at Uriah Sutherland as if he were a ghost.

The whole room moved at once, with people coming to see what was going on. K.D. was leaning against a wall, blinking. Julian had immediately set aside his tray and moved to help her. I shooed people away from the broken glass. Nora Ellis did not look happy. Ookie Claggett rolled her eyes and began to whisper to the people next to her.

Vic Zaruski, apparently accustomed to the sound of shattering glass, smoothly moved into an upbeat version of “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do.”

CHAPTER 14

Eighty-six on the glass plate,” Julian commented, once he’d retrieved some wet paper towels from the kitchen. Nora had walked carefully across the living room and shepherded K.D. down a long hall to a bathroom. Now Julian crouched next to me on the floor, picking up shards. The bishop had sidled off to change his shirt, and the rest of the crowd had gathered around the piano.

“I’m fine,” Julian and I heard K.D. protesting to Nora. “I just—I just remembered a file I need to check at the hospital.”

“Yes, yes, of course, K.D.,” Nora replied, “but just splash some cold water on your face anyway. Please.”

“Oh, Nora, for God’s sake—” But then we heard a door close. I beat a fast retreat into the kitchen for more mopping supplies.

When Nora’s heels came clickety-clacking back, Julian and I were almost through cleaning up the stray shards from the broken dish. The place where K.D. had dropped the plate was a hallway paved with slate. Stone, I had learned all too well at other catered affairs, will break anything that’s dropped on it. When Julian heard Nora approaching, he scooped up the last bit of glass he’d found and mumbled that he would check on the lunch.

Nora stooped down beside me. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” I protested. “I introduced her to your father, and then she—then she seemed to see something across the room, and dropped the plate. Is she all right?” I asked.

“Of course she’s all right. This is just one of K.D.’s typical drama-queen stunts. I told her Richard was going to be here, and that’s probably when she decided to pull something like this. I didn’t want to invite her anyway; Donald did,” she said under her breath. She glared at me, keeping a sweet smile on her face in case the guests, who were singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” around the piano, were watching. “Did my father say anything to upset her?”

“No, nothing.” I continued to wipe up glass and wished she would go away. I’d known K.D. a lot longer than Nora had. K.D. definitely was not a drama queen.

“What did my father say, exactly?”

“He said, ‘Nice to meet you, Katy.’ That’s it.”

“As if I didn’t have enough trouble with my father covered in guacamole,” she began, but then stopped short.

Hmm, I thought as I swept up the final bits of glass with a wet paper towel. Anyway, I had picked up a few interesting tidbits I hadn’t learned in my four months at the law firm. Donald Ellis, who was as far from a stud as anyone could imagine, had supposedly been putting the wood to Wink Calhoun the previous year. Dusty and Alonzo Claggett had been close friends. Ookie was a bitch, as I’d pretty much deduced. Today I’d learned she was also a loud bitch. Plus, Nora thought Dr. K. D. Chenault was a drama queen. Nora also was profoundly embarrassed by her father, although I’d been the one to spill the guac.

And I would never, ever cater for some people named Ode.

“Julian,” I said when I returned to the kitchen, “I need to get cracking on the salad service. Could you start the tenderloin and vegetables?”

He nodded and hustled across the kitchen.

What had made K.D. gasp like that? I wondered as I turned my attention to the salad. Then again, my awful ex-husband had made me squawk all the time, sad to say. I moved my concentration to the salad.

I’d already placed the plates in the refrigerator to chill. I shaved ultrathin slivers of Parmesan and set them aside. Then all that was left was the lettuce and the croutons.

Homemade croutons are the best way to make yourself a beloved caterer, even if you do have to fuss over them at the last minute. I measured out cubes of homemade French bread, then melted a stick of butter in a wide frying pan I’d brought. When the butter had just begun to sizzle, I dropped in the croutons and began stirring. The bread cubes soak up an unbelievable amount of butter. But that’s what makes them taste so great. I preheated the oven and went back to my stirring. A heavenly scent bathed the kitchen…just the thing to get appetites juiced, I’d found. When the croutons were golden brown and crispy, I put them into the warming oven.

Next I ran cold water over the cleaned heads of romaine, carefully separated the dark green leaves, and patted the best ones dry with clean towels I’d brought. People often comment on how delicious salads made by a caterer are, and it’s because our ilk rely, once again, on several tricks. The cold salad plates are one. Another is picking out the youngest, best-looking heads of organic lettuce. After rinsing the cleaned heads under running water, we wrap the separated, cleaned, patted-dry leaves in cloth towels, then put the whole kit and kaboodle in a plastic bag and place it in the refrigerator. The cloth wicks away any remaining moisture, and the resultant leaves retain an almost magical crunchiness.

This done, I preheated the oven for the Parmesan Potato Puffs while Julian finished trimming the broccoli and snap peas for the veggie dish. Here again, many people at catered functions want to be able to look at the food and say, “I could do that. Why bother to hire a caterer?” And since that is the very last thing a caterer wants a guest to think, we gussy up even the plainest of green vegetables with something. Preferably with several lovely somethings.

In this case, Julian was using fresh cherry tomatoes from Tom’s hanging-upside-down plants in our basement, and tiny pattypan squash that he’d brought from Boulder the previous day. Barely steamed along with the broccoli and snap peas, the juicy, bright red tomatoes and crunchy yellow squash would look lovely against the deep green broccoli and snap peas. Tossed with salt, pepper, and just a hint of finely grated lemon zest, then topped with melted unsalted butter and tossed again, it was the kind of vegetable dish that guests look at and taste longingly and say, “I would never go to all this trouble.” Which is precisely what the folks in our biz want them to say.

I put the prepared tenderloin in to roast alongside the potato puffs. When we were checking to make sure everything was moving along, K.D. slipped into the kitchen.

“K.D.!” I cried, but she put her finger to her lips. I whispered, “What happened? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I sort of did. Maybe. Anyway, I was just rattled.” She bit her bottom lip. “May I call you later? I’m hoping we can talk.”

“You can’t tell me what it’s about?”

“I’ll speak to you after I get something at the hospital.”

“What at the hospital?”

“A name. Then I have a shift.” She was already making for the kitchen door. “Maybe we could talk tomorrow morning, before the christening.”

I didn’t have time to say that that was when I was supposed to see Wink, because no sooner had she left than Nora opened one of the other doors to the kitchen. “We’re ready to start.” She looked at both of us. “Richard’s got a little something planned, and he wants everybody, even you two, out there to witness it.”

“Okeydoke!” Julian replied cheerfully.

“Does either of you know if K.D. will be returning?” she asked, her voice high and querulous.

“Uh, no, she won’t,” I said. “She suddenly remembered something she had to do down at the hospital.”

Nora sighed. “And she told you this, but not me?”

“I guess so,” I said, putting on a meek tone.

Nora scanned my face for signs of sarcasm. Seeing none, she shook back her curtain of blond hair and went on, “Would you all like Louise Upton out here to help you? She’s been pouring the wine, but if you need her, she could come back.” Nora pressed her hands with their long tapered fingers together and began wringing them. “I just wanted this celebration to be a success—”

I stopped placing the broccoli in the steaming basket and gave her a reassuring look. “Oh, it’s going to be a great party. Trust me. Everyone seems to be having a super time. I mean, everyone is having a great time. Really. Several guests have already commented on it, and Julian and I see all kinds of parties. This is fantastic. A-plus.”

A tiny smile crept onto Nora’s lips. “Do you really think so? Several guests have commented?” When Julian and I nodded vigorously, she said, “Well, then, I suppose everybody should see what Richard has planned. I already know what it is; it took him forever to get it set up.” She eyed the island. “Are you ready to go with the salads?”

“Give us one minute.”

“All right,” she said, her mood suddenly charitable. “Come out to the living room as soon as the salads are on the table.” Then she disappeared.

“Several guests have commented?” Julian remarked. “Who, exactly?”

I checked the meat thermometer. “Nobody. I was just trying to reassure her.”

I pulled the crisp, buttery croutons from the second oven while Julian laid out the chilled plates. Then I nabbed the bag of lettuce and handed Julian the cheese. We began to circle the island. I placed chilled romaine leaves on each plate; Julian sprinkled on the Parmesan slivers as well as judicious amounts of chopped chives—never scallions, as this was another thing the do-the-catering-yourself crowd kept their eyes out for. We’d top the salads with the warm croutons after we’d sprinkled on the dressing.

We placed the salads around the table. I noticed Nora had whisked away K.D.’s plate and place card and rearranged the dishes so that nothing was amiss. So then what had Nora been upset about? Then again, what were catering clients ever upset about? I put most of their tantrums down to preparty nerves.

When Julian and I were done, I nodded to Nora, who raised an eyebrow at Richard, who in turn moved over to the wall beside the hearth. From there, Richard gave a signal to Vic Zaruski, who began playing “Autumn Leaves.” At the same moment, Richard tugged on a nylon string I hadn’t noticed before. From overhead, hundreds, thousands of yellow and red leaves came cascading down, sort of like balloons at a political convention. The guests squealed with delight…all except for Donald, who had looked up too soon. Now he was carefully trying to remove a batch of sycamore leaves from his mouth. But apparently they had become stuck deep in his throat. Involuntarily he hawked, then spit.

Unfortunately, this sputtering occurred just as Vic ended the first verse of “Autumn Leaves.” As a result, the coughing-up was much louder and more emphatic than Donald had anticipated, and the guests watched in fascination as Donald disgorged a bouquet of half-chewed leaves glued together with saliva onto one of Nora’s white sofas. I watched in horror. First the guac, now this? What was next?

Richard clapped Donald on the back. He hollered, “Take it easy, little guy. Just keep spitting till you get it all out. My soon-to-be ex-wife was the only doctor here, and I don’t know the Heimlich maneuver.”

Nora clenched her teeth, but managed to pull herself together. She trilled, “The birthday lunch has begun! Please take your seats, folks!”

And so they did. While Richard continued to whack Donald between the shoulder blades, Julian managed to snag a couple of maple leaves that had drifted onto several plates of romaine. Was maple poisonous? I hoped not. Eventually they both found their way to the table.

Following Nora’s directions, I had lit the candles at the table, even though it was the middle of the day. But she was right; this did make things look more festive, and luckily none of the leaves had caught fire. Vic had moved into playing some easy-listening versions of Beatles songs that were, I was surprised to admit, good dining music. Julian moved around the table filling wine and water glasses. Good thing most folks lived nearby and could walk home. While the guests were working on their salads, I removed the tenderloins from the oven so that they could rest. Louise Upton said she had to leave for a doctor’s appointment. I thanked her sincerely for her help, and since I didn’t know whether Nora had given her anything extra, I handed her two twenties from my purse. She could barely conceal her astonishment.

“Why, thank you, Goldy. I don’t really need this. I work for H&J.”

“Today you did double duty for Goldilocks’ Catering, and you deserve the gratuity.”

When I returned to the dining room to collect the salad plates, the guests were discussing Dusty Routt.

“Do you think one or more thieves might have murdered her?” asked Michael Radford, the divorce attorney.

“I wonder if she could have been helping the thieves,” Ookie Claggett said. I wanted to drop a plate of vegetables in her lap, but refrained.

Richard Chenault shook his head. “That’s my niece you’re talking about.” He sighed. “She worked hard, but she wasn’t always able to keep up. So I guess it’s possible she fell in with the wrong crowd, but I hate to think that might have been true. I just hate to think it.”

“She didn’t fall behind when she was working for me,” Donald piped up. “Richard? She labored endlessly for me over a very complicated case—”

Michael Radford went on: “I don’t know. I just think paralegal work is too demanding for a twenty-year-old who hasn’t been to college.”

I was picking up Donald Ellis’s plate and was thus close by him and able to hear his whispered “Baloney.”

“Donald, come on,” Richard put in. “She really couldn’t manage your oil-and-gas-lease bequeathal, plus do all the work for Charlie Baker, which turned into work for Charlie’s estate.”

“Richard, Charlie Baker was ecstatic with the work Dusty was doing for him,” Donald said, his tone defensive. “He told me so himself.”

There was a silence: an associate had corrected a partner, and that partner, I well knew, had what they call in the psych biz “ego issues.” I paused, a dirty salad plate in each hand.

“Now, Donald,” Bishop Uriah Sutherland said mildly, “careful. Remember the old saying in the church: ‘He who is too big for his breeches may soon lose his shirt.’”

“Did Jesus say that?” Marla asked, her face wrinkled questioningly. “I never actually saw that anywhere in Scripture. Bishop, maybe you could remind me of the exact—”

“Actually,” Nora Ellis piped up, “Louise told me that she suspected Dusty of stealing from the firm.”

“Stealing?” Donald said, dumbfounded. “Stealing what—pencils? Legal pads?” I wondered at his courage at contradicting both his boss and his wife.

“You had a lot of valuable stuff in there, Donald,” Nora went on. “Richard put in quite a few lovely things, didn’t you, Richard? They’re yours, right? And not the firm’s?”

Richard Chenault beamed. “Yes, they’re mine.” Then his face soured. “They’re lovely things that I may end up selling, if K.D. and her ravenous lawyer have their way.”

Nora sighed. Marla snatched a glance at me and rolled her eyes.

Back in the kitchen, I was filling the steamed vegetable platter when my cell phone buzzed. Omigosh, I had forgotten to call Arch.

“Mom,” Arch began. “You promised I’d be able to have a driving lesson today. Did you forget?”

“We’ll do it, we’ll do it,” I promised. And then I remembered that we had Julian’s Range Rover. “Oh no, hon, maybe not. We’re just here in Julian’s Rover, and it might not work—”

“Should we just do it another time?”

My shoulders slumped in defeat and guilt, a stance I took quite often as a mother, matter of fact.

“What does he want?” Julian whispered.

“To have a driving lesson in your Rover,” I replied. “I forgot I’d promised him.”

Julian shrugged. “So let him. Tell him to have the Vikarioses drop him off over here. Or they could walk, I guess.” Then he lofted the tray containing the tenderloins, potato puffs, and vegetables. Out in the dining room, the guests were still talking, and Nora hadn’t appeared to tell us to hurry up with the next course.

“All right, hon, listen. The clients are just starting the lunch, and then we have cake. Mrs. Ellis has a maid helping who’s going to do the cleanup. Julian says you can drive his Rover—”

“Wow! Is he sure? When do you want us?”

“Look,” I said, “why don’t you and Gus walk over here”—this would take almost an hour—“and by the time you get here, Julian and I will be able to go. Or at least, we should be.”

“Really?”

“We’ll be ready.”

And surprisingly, we were. The guests all loved the beef, so much so that they downed it and the accompaniments in record time. Vic Zaruski played a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” as we presented Donald with his cake, complete with tall candles. He still didn’t look entirely happy. But he did brighten up during the opening of the presents. Richard gave him a couple of expensive silk ties. The neighbors gave him history books, to which he was apparently partial. And Marla gave him four bottles of wine that I knew had cost her two hundred bucks a pop.

“Oh, Marla, thank you,” Donald said, with the first truly appreciative tone he’d had all day.

“Well,” Nora announced, “I have two things for you. First is a trip to a place where they make that wine, the Burgundy region of France.”

“Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have,” Donald Ellis said, and leaned over to give his wife a kiss on each cheek.

“And your final gift,” said Nora, “is behind the needlepoint I gave you last year.”

Donald wrinkled his brow while his wife carefully removed the lawyer-hugging needlepoint. Behind it was a framed picture by Charlie Baker. It was entitled Journey Cake.

It really was gorgeous, and vintage Charlie Baker, which tugged at my heart. While Nora explained to Donald how valuable the painting was, part of the Cake Series II that Charlie had been doing when he died, I read Charlie’s list of ingredients. Flour, cinnamon and other spices, sugar, butter, cider. But I stared at the painting. Something was still wrong with this recipe; I just didn’t know what. I happened to glance over at Richard, who was smiling more widely than Donald.

Alonzo Claggett commented, “That must have set you back a few pretty pennies, Nora.”

Nora ignored him and put her hand on my forearm. “Don’t you like it, Goldy?” She seemed eager for approval, even if it was from the caterer. Richard was murmuring praise of the painting.

“It’s fabulous, Nora,” I said. “Happy birthday, Donald. You’re a lucky man.”

Donald Ellis gave me another Demerol-deprived look. I smiled sympathetically and bustled back out to the kitchen, where I could quietly begin to round up our supplies and almost be done with this job.

Arch and Gus arrived just before two, their faces flushed from walking. Arch’s countenance was its usual pessimistic self, as if he didn’t believe I was actually going to let him drive. Gus was bubbly, as usual.

“This house is so cool! And you worked here? Did you fix tacos? Just kidding,” he burbled on, in typical Gus fashion.

Julian tousled Arch’s hair, a show of affection my son still permitted, but only from Julian. “Big Arch! Going to drive us home, eh? And in the Rover, too?”

“I’m going to go study your dashboard,” Arch announced, his voice serious. “So I can know where all the controls are.”

Julian and I used the last of our time packing up the steamer and other utensils I’d brought. Nora Ellis actually came out to help us.

“Hi there!” Gus greeted her. “I’m Gus Vikarios. Were you Goldy’s boss today?” When Nora replied that she was, Gus piped up, “How did she and Julian do? Did you have a nice party?”

“Yes, it was very nice,” Nora said, pushing her blond hair out of her face.

“Are you going to give them a good tip?” Gus asked brazenly.

“Gus!” I cried, although I was wondering the same thing myself.

We immediately followed Nora back in for our last box so she could be spared an answer. As we were leaving, she said, “Could you take the trash out, please? Lorraine has so much to do.”

With a quickly mumbled “Of course,” I started toward the enormous black plastic sack she was pointing to. And then, out of the blue—the unconscious, or wherever these things come from—I remembered Wink’s comment about Uriah Sutherland: He likes to poke around, ask questions and I caught him going through our trash. My question was this: Why? Furthermore: Hadn’t he seemed a bit too attentive to Alonzo and Marla’s discussion of trusts? And hadn’t that also been Dusty’s area of expertise? Also, how about that bracelet? Had Uriah’s champagne tastes—in women, say, or jewelry—made him look for a receipt for something he’d given to a young lover—say, Dusty? Or what if you flipped things upside down? Maybe doesn’t-like-birthdays Uriah Sutherland had poked a little too hard in the wrong place, been discovered, and been forced to destroy the evidence—that is, Dusty.

“Let me get it,” Julian said, his voice edgy. Without looking at Nora, he handed me the box, which was, I was quite sure, about twenty pounds lighter than the trash bag.

“And oh!” Nora said, as if she’d just remembered it. “Your gratuity!” She reached into her purse and pulled out four twenty-dollar bills, which she tucked into one of my hands that was holding the box. With a smile and a wave, she walked back into the living room.

“What’s that, about a thirty percent tip?” Julian asked. “Fantastic!”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It’s great. But listen, I want you to put that trash in your Rover. And put any other trash in there that’s outside in their cans.”

“What?” Julian cried.

“Just do it. With hired help taking out the garbage on a regular basis, they’ll never miss it.”

Once we were all settled in the not-smelling-too-great Rover, Julian said, “I’m going to back out, and then you can take it the rest of the way, okay?”

“Sure,” said Arch, who sounded none too sure.

Unfortunately, Julian was unable to make even a five-point turn to get us going forward. “You want to back down the driveway, Arch? The house is on a dead end. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure,” I began, but received a furious look from Arch.

Julian and Arch exchanged seats. Arch, unaware the car was on, turned the key in the ignition. The engine shrieked.

“Happens to everybody,” Julian said from the backseat.

Stay calm, I told myself, very calm. I closed my eyes and did a yoga breathing exercise while Julian quietly told Arch that he’d have to take the Rover straight back, then gradually turn to the left, so he could make it into the street.

“Wait!” Julian said sharply. “Somebody’s coming.”

It was Donald Ellis. He was a little out of breath.

“I wanted to thank you all for doing such a great job,” he said. “I had a fabulous birthday. Here.” He pressed a hundred-dollar bill into my hand.

“Mr. Ellis, your wife has already tipped us, and that is far too much—” I began. But he was already gone.

“Can we go now?” Arch asked. His voice was so nervous I wasn’t sure he really wanted to drive, but there was no way I was going to embarrass him in front of his half brother and Julian.

I looked in the rearview mirror on the passenger side. “Sure. Give it a little gas.”

Arch began to inch down the driveway, tapping the brakes every two seconds in the way of new drivers, giving all of us in the car whiplash.

I frowned at the mirror, and realized we were up so high in the Rover that I couldn’t see exactly where the driveway was. Since the very last thing I wanted was to whack into Nora Ellis’s carefully planted fruit trees, I opened my door a smidgeon.

“Okay,” I said encouragingly, my heart light from having received two big tips. “Give it just a teensy bit more gas.”

Which is what Arch did. In fact, he gave the Rover a rather large bit of gas, with the big SUV still in reverse. This sent it catapulting into the Ellises’ serpentine wall, which tore off the open passenger-side door.

CHAPTER 15

I raised Tom on his cell. He had been investigating another case nearby, and could be at the Ellises’ house within fifteen minutes. He told us he would call a tow truck, because he knew a guy who would respond right away. I thanked him profusely.

“And see what Julian’s schedule is like,” Tom added. “If he can stay with us until the department cleans up this murder, so much the better.”

“You mean, because it’ll take forever to get the door replaced? Or do you think our family is in danger?”

“Neither,” Tom replied calmly. “But we’ve got a lead on who tried to hit Vic out in our street, and I just want as many folks in the house as possible, to watch each other’s backs. Plus, if you’re going back to do any cooking for that law firm, I don’t want you alone.”

I exhaled, thanked him again, and signed off. Then I checked out the serpentine wall. That thing must have been made of concrete, because it was completely unharmed. Thank the Lord for small favors.

As if he’d heard Tom discussing him, Vic Zaruski came ambling down the driveway. His smile was wide. “Mr. Ellis just gave me a hundred-dollar tip! Man, I want to come back here! They’ve got a Steinway that nobody plays. What the—” He was staring at the Rover door, which was lying halfway across the driveway, where it had landed. Then he looked up at our foursome: Julian, Arch, Gus, and yours truly. Vic’s grin returned. “Somebody is screwed!”

Arch and Gus were still young enough that any untoward use of profanity could send them into paroxysms of laughter.

“Vic, please. Not in front of the kiddies.”

“You should sue Rover,” Vic said, his voice suddenly serious. “A door shouldn’t come off like that, you know?”

“Well,” Julian commented, “help is on the way. And I don’t think Rover would pay for someone backing into a wall.”

“Julian,” I began for at least the fourteenth time, “I am so so so sorry—”

“No, it was my fault,” Arch said. He’d been alternately apologetic and upset since we’d all hollered for him to “Stop!” This in turn had sent me backward, then rocketing forehead-first into the dashboard. I fingered the spot gently; the bruise was already swelling. I wanted to think about something, anything, besides Arch driving. Or not driving, as the case might be.

“It was my fault, Arch,” I said with a finality that I hoped would close the argument.

Gus said, “This is just like what my grandfather is always saying.” Gus lowered his voice. “‘Take responsibility, Gus. That’s what no one does these days. Take responsibility!’”

“I’m going to run inside,” Julian said. “You need to get some ice on that forehead, Goldy.” The very last thing I wanted was to bother the Ellises, and have them come out here. But Julian was already racing up the driveway. I prayed that he would meet Lorraine, who would help him out.

“Vic,” I said lightly. “Your playing was great. I love those old sixties songs. You did a marvelous job.”

He blushed to the roots of his tightly curled straw-colored hair. “Why, thanks.” Then his face turned glum. He shook his head.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, I used to hope that, you know…” He looked into the street, as if thinking about what he used to hope.

Gus and Arch had moved into Woods’ End, where they were throwing a Frisbee that had popped free from Julian’s storage area behind their seat. So with just Vic and me in the driveway, I wondered if he’d talk to me a bit about Dusty. About why he threw a diamond ring through the window of Aspen Meadow Jewelers. About what he had hoped.

“No,” I said, my voice low. “I don’t know.”

To my great surprise, as well as Vic’s, I imagine, tears spilled out of his eyes. He muttered another profanity and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. I pulled a tissue out of my pants pocket and handed it to him. Julian still hadn’t returned, and the boys were yelling and racing back and forth as they tossed the Frisbee.

I said, “Vic, is there something you want to say to me?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. He searched in his pockets and brought out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke? Think the Ellises will mind?”

“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” I said, although I was sure of no such thing. Still, some folks’ tongues were loosened up by booze; maybe nicotine could do the same thing.

The match flared; Vic took a deep drag and looked at me. “You probably heard Dusty and I broke up.”

“Yes, I did.”

He looked toward the trees that edged the far border of Woods’ End. “Well, that’s what I told the cops, you know, when they took me down to the department. We broke up, end of story. ‘So what were you doing in that copy place at that hour of night?’ ‘Yo! I work there,’ I told them.” Vic shook his head. “I just thought you would have heard about when I was in interrogation, because you’re married to a cop. I figured, you know, they talk.”

“Well, that’s not the case with Tom. Sometimes I hear things, sometimes he discusses cases with me, but I know to keep my mouth shut.”

Vic took another drag on his cigarette. I guessed Julian and Lorraine were waiting for the ice maker to fill. At length, Vic said, “I hoped Dusty and I would be able to tour together. She wasn’t a great singer, but she was a pretty good one. And she loved the music, man. She just dug it.” Another drag on the cigarette. “But she didn’t dig me. In the end, she didn’t dig me.”

“Look, Vic, I’m sorry. Is there something you want to tell me that you haven’t told the police?”

Vic dropped the half-smoked cigarette and twisted it under the toe of his black boot. “I hit her. Oh God; now there, I’ve said it. It was only once.” He began to cry again. “I’m so sorry, and you with your history and all, that the whole town knows.”

Very softly, I asked, “Did you tell the cops you hit her?”

He put his head in his hands. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Where did you hit her, Vic? Where on her body, I mean. Where and when?”

He blew out air. “I slapped her face. It was that night, around seven. She came over to Art, Music, and Copies to return a ring I’d given her. I was so—” He couldn’t finish the thought.

I said, “Did you trash her car? Because if they find the hammer or whatever it was at your place—”

“No, no, I didn’t trash her car. I even wanted to apologize to her. But I was just so mad. I was just so damn mad.”

Angry and mad, perhaps. But I was still treading gingerly. “Was there someone else?” I asked. “Someone else in her life, and that’s why she broke up with you?”

“I asked her. She said no. I wasn’t sure I believed her. She yelled at me, and I yelled at her, and then I—” He closed his eyes at the memory.

“The pathologist will find the mark you made on her face,” I said solemnly. “Sometimes slaps even match certain people’s hands—”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked. His eyes flared. “Call the sheriff’s department and say, ‘Uh-oh, I forgot to tell you that I hit my girlfriend, I mean, my ex-girlfriend’?”

“That is precisely what you need to do,” I said as Julian came sauntering back down the driveway, using both hands to hold a cloth towel bulging with ice. Just then, Tom’s trustworthy car came into sight, with trustworthy Tom behind the wheel. The boys snagged the Frisbee and raced toward us. “Let me say something to you, Vic,” I said, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice. “You need to tell the cops just what you told me. Because you’re right, they’re going to find out. Sooner or later. And if they discover you haven’t been forthright with them, things are going to get very bad for you.”

Tom pulled his car into the Ellises’ driveway within a foot of the hapless Rover door. “Hey, everybody!” he sang as he jumped out. He looked over his shoulder at Vic’s Sebring, which was parked on the dead end. Tom hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Now that’s a convertible.” He shook his head at the doorless Rover and pointed at it. “That is not how you want to get air inside a car.” When he saw my expression, his joviality disappeared. “C’mere, Miss G. You look like the Jerk just walked back into your life.”

“Not quite,” I whispered, and glanced at Vic. He gave a barely perceptible nod. “Vic has something to tell you, Tom. He’s going to do it now.”

So all our plans changed. Tom, as might be expected, was immediately somber. He wanted to take Vic down to the department right away to make a statement. Vic agreed.

When we were discussing how we were going to do the vehicles, Julian, who could sense something was up without being told what it was, said, “I could wait here for the tow truck, ask the guy to take you all home, then come back for me after he drops off the Rover.”

“No, thanks, but no,” I protested, unwilling to calculate how long it would take to have the tow-truck driver chauffeur us hither and yon, even if he was willing to do it. The next day was the christening reception, and like it or not, Julian and I needed to do the prep.

Vic pulled his keys out of his pocket. “Take the Sebring.” When I gave him a dubious look, he said, “It’s okay. I trust you.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Just park it on the street by the Routts’ place and I’ll get it later.”

How did I feel about taking a suspect’s car back home? Guilty? Worried? Actually, I was too tired to have any feelings. We lived less than half an hour away, and Tom would be back soon. Even he seemed to think it would be okay, so I acquiesced. He also murmured that he would call Brewster Motley if it looked as if Vic was going to be charged and needed a criminal defense attorney.

Within five minutes, the boys were again shrieking with laughter, this time at the prospect of yours truly driving them in a convertible with the top down, all the way home! Imagining the windy drive back to our house, I thought I’d be lucky not to get the flu.

As Tom was departing with Vic, the tow truck pulled up, thank God. It was only a matter of minutes before the driver and Julian managed to hook the truck up to the Rover. I gave the driver my credit-card number while Julian tossed the errant door into the back of his car.

He slapped his hands together and gave me a wide smile. “I never liked that door anyway.”

You gotta love the kid, I thought as I hustled Arch and Gus into the rear seat of the convertible. And so I drove us all home, with the boys hollering, “This is so cool! This is so cool!” the entire way.

Once Julian and I were back in our kitchen, I had two things to do: start on the prep for the christening reception, and call the Routts. Make that three things: I needed to start on the dinner dish I’d promised Tom. The sausage-and-potato casserole was a hearty entrée that Tom had adapted from Julia Child, and he loved to dig into it when the weather turned cold. With the thermometer hovering right at thirty-two degrees, that was precisely what it was, despite my son and his half brother’s glee at being driven home in an open-air vehicle.

“When the temperatures drop, I don’t even drive with my windows down,” Julian said, once he’d donned an apron. “I feel as if my ears are frozen to the sides of my face.”

“I may never talk again,” I said, feeling my chilled lips. “Some people might not see that as a bad thing.”

Julian merely shook his head. I told him what I’d planned for the christening reception: Prosciutto Bites, Charlie’s Asparagus Quiche recipe from the booklet we’d bought at CBHS, Homemade Breads, and Fresh Fruit Salad. Aspen Meadow Bakery was doing an enormous sheet cake, so I didn’t need to bake another Old Reliable. Julian started tapping my computer keys. The printer began spitting out recipes and prep sheets, and the two of us gathered ingredients from the walk-in.

“You might want to make an extra quiche, a small one,” I warned Julian as he was grating cheese. “The dinner Tom wants is a meat lover’s extravaganza.” Julian mumbled something unintelligible about heart disease, but said it was no problem. “Can you manage in here,” I asked, “if I go see the Routts?”

“Of course,” he said. “But if I’m going to be spending more than just one night here, at some point I need to go get my clothes.”

I told him that Tom would like him to stay with us for a while, at least until Dusty’s murder was solved, but only if he could swing it with the bistro where he was working. Julian promised he’d be able to switch some shifts. But he still needed clothes, he reminded me, or a car to go get them in. We agreed to go to Boulder the next afternoon, Sunday, after the service.

I rummaged around in the freezer until I found an oblong dish full of spaghetti and meatballs that I had made for one of the fund-raisers at Christian Brothers High School. I wrote out directions for heating it. Before starting for the Routts’ house, I asked Julian to come out onto the front porch and watch me. This he did, and I also looked both ways, because I sure didn’t want somebody to mow down my casserole and me.

Sally answered the door after I’d knocked several times. Her hair looked even more straggly and unkempt than when I’d seen her the day before, and the odor emanating from the house was foul. Maybe she was embarrassed to have me come in, and that was why she’d been reluctant to see who was on her front stoop.

“Do you have anything to tell me?” she asked. Her expressionless gaze skimmed the street. “Why is Vic’s car parked in front of your house? Is he over visiting you? Will he be back to see us? I feel so bad about not letting him in the other morning…and he’s been so helpful and kind. Is he coming over here?”

“Uh, no,” I stammered. I was not going to tell Sally the reason for Vic’s sudden trek down to the sheriff’s department, as that would upset her even more. “He’s with Tom. He’ll be back soon.” When she didn’t say anything, I went on: “Could you let me in? I need to put this casserole in your refrigerator…and ask you a few questions.”

“The police have asked us enough questions to last us a lifetime,” she said, but she pulled the door open and I followed her to the kitchen.

The cause of the odor was immediately apparent, as the smell was much stronger by the sink. No one had taken out the trash.

The trash! I’d forgotten all about the mess in the back of Julian’s Rover. I checked my watch: just after five. I knew Aspen Meadow Imports, where the Rover had been towed, closed soon. I would just have to get it the next day. No wait, that was Sunday. By the time I got it Monday, Julian’s vehicle would be permanently infused with the smell of garbage.

Well: to the task at hand. I didn’t ask for Sally’s permission to remove the trash; I just did it. It had probably been Dusty’s job. I toted the bulging plastic bag out to the garbage container, thankful that no bears had been reported in our neighborhood. When I came back inside, Colin’s disconsolate crying filled the house. I guessed that he’d just awakened from his nap. But this was only a guess, because Sally remained glued to the couch.

“Let me go get him,” I offered. And so I washed my hands and went to fetch the little guy, since Sally still wasn’t moving. Colin, his face mottled from weeping, needed a change. It had been well over a decade since I’d changed a diaper, and when I started I realized Colin needed a bath. Poor kid.

“All right, buster, let’s go,” I said to him in as commanding a tone as I could muster.

Fifteen minutes later, I brought Colin, bathed, changed, and clothed in clean garments, into the small living room. Sally had not stirred. After I put Colin down, I came and sat beside her.

“You know, Sally, maybe we should get a counselor to come here to the house. I can call one, if you’d like. You need help.”

“What I need,” she said in a monotone, “is to find out what happened to my daughter.”

“Okay, okay,” I said as I pulled my cell from my pocket. “But may I get somebody here to help you?”

“Do whatever you want.”

I walked into the kitchen and put in a call to Furman County Social Services, steeling myself for the usual bureaucratic runaround. To my astonishment, I was only transferred once, and the office said they would send a grief counselor up that evening. I also put in a call to St. Luke’s. Thank goodness some foresighted soul had thought to put in confidential voice mail for Father Pete. He’d just been over here the previous day, but hopefully he could manage another visit. I added that if he was aware of anyone in the Episcopal Church Women who knew the Routts, and would be willing to stop in once a day to do some cleaning and cooking, that would be great.

“Have you eaten today, Sally?” I asked when I came back out to the living room. No to that, too. Which probably meant that Colin was hungry, as well. Where was Sally’s father? Perhaps he napped in the afternoon. But a happy cry from Colin and a rush of hurried baby steps indicated that John Routt had made his appearance from the other side of the small house. For that I was thankful.

Ten minutes later I had heated up slices of ham left by a parishioner, a pan of macaroni and cheese—the ultimate comfort food—and placed these next to small dishes of chilled applesauce. It was the kind of not-quite-balanced meal we used to get in the school cafeteria when I was a kid, but I figured it would do. For Sally and her father, I set up the metal TV tables that had been part of the sparse furnishing the parish had done for the house. Colin slipped easily into his yellow chair-within-a-table, even called out gleefully when he saw the applesauce. I cut his ham and macaroni into bite-size pieces and served them. To my great surprise and satisfaction, they all, even Sally, ate hungrily.

I didn’t want to make them uncomfortable while they were enjoying their food, so I washed the two pots I’d dirtied, then cleaned out the refrigerator. I took out two of the church’s offerings as well as my casserole-cum-directions, and put all three into the Routts’ small freezer. By the time they were finished eating, I had the counters cleaned and the little dishwasher—but at least they had one, and built in, too—almost loaded. I put in their dishes and silverware, and figured it was time to talk.

With Colin settled in on the far side of the living room to watch Sesame Street on the portable TV, Sally, with some color in her cheeks and looking far less desolate, moved the two living-room chairs over by the spread-covered couch, so she and her father and I could visit.

“I haven’t found out much,” I warned them. “Just rumors at this point, that kind of thing.”

“Was there anything in the computer?” Sally asked.

“Sort of,” I said. “I know Julian called you to ask about this, and you said you hadn’t heard of it, but are you sure that Dusty didn’t have a friend-who-was-a-boy with the first or last name beginning with O?”

“Positive,” Sally said. “She had been going out with Vic Zaruski, but that had ended, I’m pretty sure.”

“Was he nice to her?” I asked. “I mean, did she ever complain that he was not nice to her?”

Sally shrugged. “She didn’t say one way or the other. Why?”

Before I could talk about the face slap, John Routt piped up: “I believe there was more affection on his side than there was on hers.”

“Did she tell you that?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “But when you’re blind you pick up a lot of nuances and attitudes from speech.”

I steeled myself for my next question. “Okay, there’s an attorney with whom Dusty was friends. They worked out together. Did she ever mention doing exercises or weights with someone, someone whom she might have cared for romantically?”

“She never mentioned anyone,” said Sally. “Who is this person?”

The less said about any specific attorney, the better, I figured. I didn’t want Sally going on an ill-conceived vigilante mission. “Just a guy,” I said, my tone light. “This next part is important. Did Dusty talk to you about working for Charlie Baker?”

“Oh yes, Charlie Baker,” Sally said. “She really did like him. He died, but I guess it wasn’t wholly unexpected.”

“No,” I said. “Anyway, she mentions a gift from Charlie. Then another time, just a couple of days before she was killed, one of Charlie Baker’s neighbors saw her carrying something out of his house, in a tube. A long tube, the kind someone might use to store paintings. Do you know anything about this?”

Sally shook her head, clearly frustrated that there was so much about her child she hadn’t known. But wait. The last entry in Dusty’s journal had said: “Now I can compare them.” I’d thought she meant boyfriends, but maybe she meant something else. I ran this by Sally.

“Compare what?” Sally asked, hooking her straggly hair behind her ear. “The only thing Dusty cared about was learning the law. I think her dream was to become a lawyer someday. But you can’t carry law books in a tube. And anyway, if she had taken anything, the police would have found it when they searched our house.”

“All right,” I said wearily. “I guess I’ll have to go down to Mile-High Paralegal Institute to see if she had a locker—”

“Wait,” said John Routt. “She might have left them with me.”

“Dad?” asked Sally Routt, clearly astonished.

“Let’s go into my room.” He stood and began tap-tapping his way down a short hall.

I remembered this room: it had been designed as a porch with a separate entrance. And it could have been used as a porch, if it hadn’t been assigned to Sally’s father, who’d come here after his wife died. The windows were the jalousie type, now tightly shut against the chill. The futon with its striped pillows was still there, as were the mismatched chairs and the small table with the saxophone on top. On summer evenings, John would open the windows and play the saxophone, and we lucky neighborhood folks could imagine we were outside a New York jazz club. In one corner was a space heater, its orange wires glowing brightly. I didn’t see anything that could fit into a tube.

“Are you facing the interior wall of the house?” John asked. “That’s where Dusty hung two things. She told me to take care of them, no matter what.”

I turned around. And there, suspended from hooks, were two paintings by Charlie Baker.

I stared at them. One was titled Trustworthy Chocolate Cake. It was an old recipe for an extraordinarily fudgy cake that I knew well. Like the Journey Cake recipe, it contained no eggs, and yet somehow, this recipe looked correct. Was I missing something? My sleep-deprived mind refused to provide an answer.

The other painting was for something Charlie called Plum Kuchen. In the fall, when those small, tart Italian plums are plentiful, I frequently made plum kuchen myself. I stared at the recipe. Here, as with the Journey Cake recipe, reading the ingredient list made me uneasy. Something just didn’t look right. I peered at the lower right-hand side of each painting, and there was Charlie Baker’s signature.

“Does this help?” John Routt asked into the air.

“It might,” I said, not wanting to discourage him.

“Our Dusty wouldn’t have stolen anything.”

“I know that. Do you mind if I use my cell phone?”

He replied that he didn’t, and he would leave me to conduct my call in private.

“I just finished practicing,” Meg Blatchford said, after I identified myself. She was panting.

“Meg, do you know if Charlie ever left an ingredient out of his recipes?”

Why should I have been surprised when she said, “Oh yes, always. Didn’t you know that?”

“No. Tell me.”

I could hear Meg clattering ice cubes into a glass. “Wait a sec,” she said, still gasping a bit. “All that pitching works up a thirst.” After a moment, she said, “You know, Charlie’s financial success came somewhat late in life for him. Because of that, he became anxious about his work. He…was always afraid of…imitators.”

“Imitators?”

“Yes, he was terrified that a guest or intruder would sneak into his studio while he was in another part of that big house, sleeping, or cooking, or whatever. He worried constantly that this unwelcome someone would steal the painting or paintings, before they went to the gallery. He told me once that he was even anxious about someone coming in and taking photos of his works in progress, so they could do an imitation or forgery.” Meg stopped to sip water. “But in case someone got the not-so-bright idea to try to sell forged or stolen works before Charlie set them up at the gallery that represented him, he did a little joke. A little joke that made him feel more secure.”

“What kind of little joke?”

“Well. When he hand-lettered the recipe under the painting, he would always leave out the very last ingredient. However! He always put it in the margin, to remind himself of what it was. When he got to the gallery to help set up his paintings, he would always go around and hand-letter the very last ingredient of each recipe. You remember my stew painting? Did you see the merry little sticks of butter running all around in the margin?”

“Sure,” I said, still puzzled.

“Well, if you look carefully at the very last ingredient that’s hand-lettered in there, it’s a stick of butter, that you put in for enrichment of the stew. Charlie was very old-fashioned in the area of cholesterol.”

I stared hard at the margin of Trustworthy Chocolate Cake. It was filled with cheerful little cups of water, prancing around the edge of the painting. And the last ingredient on the hand-lettered recipe was “1 cup water.”

What was missing from Charlie’s recipe for Plum Kuchen? All I had to do was look in the margin, right? And there were spoonfuls of sugar, cavorting happily all around the edge of the painting. Of course. You made the butter-rich batter, spread it into a springform pan, laid on the plums, and finally, sprinkled them with a couple of tablespoons of sugar before the lovely concoction went into the oven.

And what had been missing from the Journey Cake recipe? I asked myself. Baking soda, I realized just as quickly. Baking soda, baking soda, baking soda. Without eggs, you definitely need an acid and a base to make the cake rise. Julian and I had had the acid, which was the cider, but not the base, soda. My inner ear provided Arch saying “Duh, Mom.”

I thanked Meg, signed off, and again looked at the paintings. Trustworthy Chocolate Cake was a complete painting. Plum Kuchen was not complete. And the Journey Cake recipe, the one on the painting Nora had given her husband, had not been complete. “Now I can compare them,” Dusty had said in her journal. Indeed.

I punched in our home numbers, praying that Tom had returned from the sheriff’s department. When he answered, my shoulders slumped in relief.

“Tom,” I said breathlessly. “How did Vic do?”

“Okay, I suppose. Our guys took his statement and released him. We don’t have enough evidence to charge him. Yet.”

I swallowed. “Well, listen. I need you to drive over to the Routts’ house.”

“Wait,” my husband said. “I just saw Vic off, and now you want me to get in my car and drive across the street?”

“Yes,” I said, “I don’t want anyone to see what I’m taking out of this house and bringing to our house. I…I think whoever killed Dusty may be having her house watched somehow. Or our house watched. That would explain why Vic was almost hit bringing the computer over.”

“I still haven’t told you about my line on that, by the way.”

“Tom! This isn’t like my bringing a casserole across the street, okay? Would you please just drive over?”

“I could get some cops to park at both ends of the street. Create a roadblock down on Main.”

“Are you going to make fun of me, or are you going to come help me smuggle some key evidence out of the Routts’ house?”

“Key evidence that you’re touching, no doubt.”

“In four seconds, I am walking out of this house.”

Tom said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

CHAPTER 16

I took the paintings down from the wall. They weren’t suspended from hooks, as I’d thought, but were attached with plastic clothes hangers. Once I had them both down, I started rolling them up, carefully, very, very carefully. But it was difficult, because something was making the paintings bulky…

On the backs of each of the paintings was a form, with several typed sheets attached. I probably shouldn’t have, but I delicately lifted the tape holding the papers in place.

The form began: “In the matter of the estate of.” And then someone had typed “Charles Baker.” I skimmed down to the title of the form itself: “Inventory.” Hmm.

While I was waiting for Tom, I scanned the rest of the first page, which contained a summary of “Schedule A (Real Estate),” “Schedule B (Stocks and Bonds),” and so on through “Schedule F (Miscellaneous Property).” One portion of the form was highlighted in yellow: “Decedent’s estates: Assets shall be listed and the fair market value given as of the date of the decedent’s death. The inventory shall be sent to interested persons who request it or the original inventory may be filed with the court…”

I frowned at the form taped to the back of the other painting, the one I now knew had an incomplete recipe. The form appeared to be the same as the first, with the same area highlighted. A four-page printout had been stapled to both forms. My eyes crossed trying to read the single-spaced typing. “Chairs, Sculptures, Crystal, China…” I just couldn’t do this with any kind of understanding right now. Which was a good thing, because that was when Tom’s sedan crunched over the gravel and ice in the Routts’ driveway.

To his credit, Tom did not grumble or complain when I crept out the back door of the Routts’ house carrying a large trash bag filled with my loot. I got into Tom’s sedan and began the arduous one-second trip across the street.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked, once we were inside.

“Charlie Baker paintings. Two of them. From Dusty’s journal, I think he gave her one of them, as a thank-you for the work she had done for him. I’m afraid the second one is unfinished.”

“Unfinished?”

“Yes, Charlie’s friend Meg said he never wrote down the last ingredient of his recipe until the very end, when the paintings were going to be sold at the gallery, or given to someone like Dusty. Some of the paintings that are floating around now have an ingredient missing. And get this—there are some inventory forms that the department will want to go over. Dusty had taped them to the backs of the paintings, so she was trying to keep them from somebody.”

Tom cocked an eyebrow. “Inventory forms taped to the backs of the paintings?”

“Don’t worry! I’m not going to keep them. I’ll leave figuring them out to the geniuses down at the department. But listen, I suspect that Nora Ellis bought an unfinished Charlie Baker painting, thinking it was a completed one. So I hope your guys can go talk to her—”

Tom held up his hand. “You’re going to have to explain all of this to me, and then maybe I can send a detective to go talk to the Ellises. Okay?”

“Sure. Now tell me your news.”

“We have a line on a guy, but not the guy himself, who tried to mow down Vic. You know how crooks are always the worst rats?” When I nodded, he went on: “Seems a guy we’d had a forgery warrant out on got himself arrested. First thing he tries to do is deal. Seems he has a friend named Jason Gurdley—” I shook my head. “Hey, his mother named him, not me. Anyway, Jason bragged about being paid a thousand bucks just to run over anyone bringing any stuff out of the Routts’ house.”

“What?”

“Apparently, someone was afraid of what Dusty had.”

“This is where you tell me that you found Jason, and he gave up the name of whoever paid him to try the rundown.”

Tom smiled at me. “Hey, you can’t have everything. Jason Gurdley has skipped to parts unknown. We’ve left messages all over saying we need to talk to him pursuant to a murder investigation, but that might cause him to stay hidden, wherever he is. Still, now we know someone was behind the attempt to kill Dusty’s computer.”

“And Vic.”

“Yeah; him, too.” His eyes gleamed. “Our guys did arrest someone else, though.”

“When were you going to tell me this?”

“Well, you had me chauffeuring you around with your paintings—”

“Who, dammit?”

“Somebody tried to pawn that opal-and-diamond bracelet in Denver, just this afternoon. The pawnshop owner had gotten our fax of your drawing and called the department. The detectives drove down and showed him photographs of Vic and everyone who worked at the law firm. He picked out the person who attempted to pawn the bracelet. So our guys got the fastest search warrant on earth, and found something extremely interesting in the Dumpster outside the apartment of our would-be bracelet seller.” Tom paused for effect. “Try a sledgehammer covered with some dark red car paint and glass fragments.”

“Oh Lord.”

“Our guys just picked up Louise Upton.”

“What? Maybe the bracelet was Louise’s, and she loaned it to Dusty—”

“Or maybe Dusty gave Louise a sledgehammer in exchange for the bracelet. Do you think?”

“But what motive would Louise have to kill Dusty?”

“Goldy, I don’t know. She saw the bracelet and thought she could pawn it for needed cash. She struggled with Dusty and ended up strangling her. I’m telling you, that woman, Louise Upton, is as hard as granite. She didn’t even protest when they arrested her. She just said she wanted an attorney. Look, I’m going to call the guys at the department, have them come get this evidence.”

“Just wait a sec, okay? Tell me why you think Louise would have used a sledgehammer on Dusty’s car.”

Tom held the phone loose in his hand. He said patiently, “Crime of passion? Say a guy is going to kill his ex-girlfriend and trash her car, too. We find slashed tires, broken windshields, garbage dumped all over a lawn? We know somebody’s been hurt real bad. Hurt in the heart. Problem is, this behavior is well known, ’cuz stories about it are in the paper all the time. Now, a perp wants to make it look as if he’s killed out of passion, instead of just trying to shut somebody up, say? He’ll get out the hammer and go after his victim’s stuff.”

I still was doubtful. Louise Upton under arrest for Dusty’s murder? Okay, Louise was desperate for money. Had she stolen something besides the bracelet—say, a painting or two—and been discovered by Dusty? But if Dusty had discovered Louise was involved in nefarious doings, Louise wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill Dusty and leave her corpse inside the office of the firm she said she was married to, would she?

Then again, my brain yelled back at me, Louise might have left Dusty’s body if she’d killed Dusty in a burst of panic. So it was possible.

“Tom,” I said tentatively while he was dialing, “may I just look through Dusty’s things for a couple of minutes?”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. “All right, go get some of those surgical gloves your favorite health inspector says you have to use when you handle poultry.”

I responded with alacrity, which was one of Arch’s vocab words that I particularly liked. It meant that you got your butt in gear with enthusiasm and speed.

Five minutes later, I was wearing a pair of my surgical gloves and sifting through the papers attached to the inventory forms. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see what exactly about the law it was that Dusty found attractive. I didn’t understand why the forms couldn’t merely state: “Attach a list of the dead guy’s stuff.” But in the last analysis, I guessed that wouldn’t work.

After a few moments, I finally got the bright idea to compare the two lists, page by page, side by side. After straining my eyes for what felt like an eon—Julian even came out of the kitchen to see what was going on—I saw the discrepancy. Or thought I did. On one page listing miscellaneous assets, someone—Dusty?—had typed “45 paintings.” On the page that matched it from the other inventory, the same listing indicated “9 paintings.”

So, could I make the deduction that there were thirty-six Charlie Baker paintings out there, all missing one ingredient, that someone had stolen and was trying to sell? I thought so. And Nora Ellis, who had plenty of money but no cooking ability, wouldn’t have known a recipe for Journey Cake from one for beef stew, right?

But where had she gotten the painting? From Richard, who supposedly had been in charge of getting new keys and locks made for Charlie Baker’s house? From Louise, or from Wink, either of whom might have been actually ordered to get those new keys and locks made? From Vic, ever hard up for money and, until recently, Dusty’s boyfriend? He could have borrowed the keys from Dusty, stolen the paintings, and returned them without her knowing, couldn’t he? But would Vic be able to change the inventory sheets? That would indicate someone in the law firm. What about Alonzo Claggett, who was Dusty’s workout buddy…might he have snagged and copied the keys? I had no idea.

I told Tom my theory, but lack of a clear suspect, when he got off the phone.

“You think somebody killed Dusty because he, or she, wanted to steal some paintings?”

“Yeah, maybe. And then that person—maybe Louise, okay—started selling the paintings to people with lots of dough who want a genuine Charlie Baker.”

Tom considered this for a moment. “How’s Julian doing on your cooking tomorrow?”

“I can check. Why?”

“Be a good idea if you typed up everything you’ve figured out about the paintings. We can give it to the guys when they come up.”

Alacrity was getting to be my middle name. I hopped up and headed for the computer in the kitchen. There, Julian had finished the Asparagus Quiches, which were rising in the oven and giving off an enticing scent. Now he was peeling apples.

Apples? “What are you making?” I asked. “We don’t have anything on the menu tomorrow that includes apples.”

Julian peered down at the prep sheets. “Prosciutto Bites—prep is done, but they have to be finished at the last minute. Asparagus Quiches—done. Fruit Salad—ditto with the last-minute thing. So…there I was looking around in your walk-in, and what do I find but a bunch of apples? Time for an apple pie. Or a couple of apple pies, so I can take one over to the Routts if they aren’t too burned out on apples after your Apple Betty. I’m going to use Charlie’s recipe for All-American Apple Pie. What do you think?”

“Who can say no to apple pie?” I smiled and said, “I think you’re great.” Then I stared at the computer screen and skipped over to the file I’d opened regarding the investigation. It didn’t take long to write up my analysis, or theory, really, about the paintings that Dusty had cleverly hidden by putting them in her blind grandfather’s room. The cops who’d searched the Routts’ house wouldn’t have known they were significant; how could they have? But they were. Or at least I believed they were. And the attached inventories, I added, might indicate that something was up with accounting for Charlie Baker’s assets, assets that needed to be reported to the probate court. When I was done, I printed out the sheets for Tom, who thanked me and said he would wait in the living room for the department guys to show up.

Well, I hoped my ideas would be some help, I mused as I started a big pot of water boiling for the potatoes that would go into the sausage casserole. While I was peeling the potatoes, I told Julian about the most recent developments in the Dusty case. Julian shook his head and rolled out the pie dough. I dropped the potatoes into the water and then began earnestly chopping onions. After a few moments, I wiped tears away. The hard place behind my heart, the place that was still holding on to Dusty, wasn’t softening.

I washed and trimmed the mushrooms, squeezed them to release their liquid, and melted a big hunk of butter in a large sauté pan. I tossed in the chopped onions and mushrooms, and soon the kitchen was filled with the delectable scent of onions and mushrooms sautéing in butter. Perhaps drawn by the sound of the sizzle in the pan, or maybe by the fragrance wafting upstairs, Arch and Gus came clomping down.

Gus pushed through the kitchen door first. “Man, what are we having?”

I had cut off the casings of the sausages and added them to the sputtering onions and mushrooms. Gus watched in fascination. I told him about the sausage casserole, and he beamed.

“Uh-oh, pie!” Arch yelled, when he saw Julian carefully spooning a mound of spice-laced apple slices into a waiting crust. “Is that for us, or is it for a job?”

Julian lifted his chin and winked at Arch. “Hey, would we make apple pies for clients, and not make one for the family?”

“Yes,” Arch said, his tone accusatory.

“One’s for us,” Julian said. “And one’s for the Routts.”

There was an awkward moment when Gus and Arch looked at each other, as if trying to think of something to say. Teenagers have a hard time talking about the death of someone they know. I worried about Arch. Maybe the death of Dusty was bothering him more than he was letting on. As usual, my son was pretty hard to read.

“Let’s go throw the Frisbee for Jake,” Gus said finally, and the two boys raced out of the room.

“I think Arch is having a difficult time,” I told Julian. “When death strikes this close, all that comes up is fear for the people he loves.”

Julian nodded as he concentrated on the apples. Not so long ago, he had lost a young woman he loved in another murder; this had changed him, made him a little more serious. I suppose kids in their twenties have the same fears.

Once the pies were baked and cooling, we had a jolly dinner. Julian indulged in a small quiche made from leftovers, while the rest of us dug into the rich, juicy casserole, with its layers of potatoes, mixture of mild and hot Italian sausages, and creamy binder of eggs, half-and-half, and Gruyère cheese. I thought back to when a critic asked if I was cooking for the National Cholesterol Institute. There was actually no such thing, place, or restaurant. But if there were, this recipe would certainly be on their menu.

When we finished eating, Tom insisted on doing the dishes so that the boys could watch a movie and Julian and I could plan upcoming events. We didn’t have another scheduled affair until Monday, when I was supposed to do breakfast for Hanrahan & Jule. I wasn’t so sure how I felt about going back to the H&J offices where I’d found Dusty, but I was still under contract to the law firm, and the place would probably be cleaned and open for business by then. We decided on a frittata made with fresh chopped scallions and Tom’s cherry tomatoes. That night, we’d be doing a dinner for ten big donors and a few others involved in buying the land and designing the Mountain Pastoral Center. The funding to build and operate the center would be coming from Charlie Baker’s bequest, once the will finished wending its way through probate. Our catering client was the Episcopal Diocese of Colorado itself. The meal would be simple: Chicken Piccata, steamed asparagus, and wild rice. Julian frowned and asked about possible vegetarians. I said I didn’t know of any who might be coming, but if he wanted to think about a possible dish, that would be great. For dessert, the events coordinator had said they just wanted “something spectacular.”

Julian snorted. “Chicken and ‘something spectacular.’ What is this, an amusement park?”

I sighed. Every now and then, Julian was showing signs of becoming a chef. “We can invent whatever we want, to go with the vegetarian dish you’ve yet to come up with.”

“Thanks, boss,” Julian replied, with an enormous smile.

Julian went off to watch the movie with the boys. Tom and I were left sitting in the kitchen. For some reason, I felt totally wired, and said so.

“Couldn’t be those sixteen shots of espresso you had this morning, could it?” Tom asked mildly.

I gave him a sour look. “Have you told Sally and John Routt about the arrest?”

“That’s not my job. But they’ll be informed soon.”

I blew out air. I had done so much talking to people in the past two days, made so many attempts at investigating Dusty’s bizarre death, tried so hard to fulfill my promise to Sally Routt…and what had it come to? Nothing. Well, a bit more than nothing. The inventory for Charlie’s assets had some discrepancies. And I had lots of suspects in mind for the person who could have stolen the paintings and manufactured a fake inventory.

Tom’s phone beeped. When he got off, he said, “Hmm.”

“That’s not very enlightening.”

“Louise Upton and her lawyer say she found the bracelet in her car. As far as the sledgehammer goes, she has no idea whose it is. She’s never even handled a sledgehammer, she insists, and we weren’t going to find her fingerprints on the thing. And get this—she and her lawyer invited the cops to search her house, see if any of her shoes or clothing had any glass on ’em.”

“She invited them?”

Tom cocked his head. “She must be pretty sure of her innocence.” He chuckled. “She told the cops they weren’t to make a mess in her house.”

At that, I actually laughed. Then the same buzzing sound in my brain, the crazed energy that I’d been feeling ever since I’d come home from the Routts’ house with the paintings, took over. I zipped around the house, putting stuff away, tossing trash, and leaving each room spotless. What else could I do? Well, I could finish reading Dusty’s journal. And…

Maybe I could prevail on K. D. Chenault to come over to the house tonight. I simply couldn’t wait until the next morning to hear what she had to say, not with Louise Upton behind bars and so many questions unanswered.

I put in a call to K.D.’s separate line at the Chenault home. I know that it’s time-consuming and expensive to find lovely housing, and I’d heard of more than one Aspen Meadow divorce ending up with a physical splitting of the big mansion, but goodness! I never could have lived with my soon-to-be ex under the same roof, once I had decided the marriage was over. But people were different. Maybe divorce was friendlier these days. Somehow, I doubted that.

K.D. answered on the third ring, sounding as if I had awakened her. Feeling like a heel, I identified myself and apologized for calling at eight on a Saturday night. She said it was no problem, she just tried to sleep when she could, since late Saturday night and the wee hours of Sunday morning were prime times for ER activity, and she could be called in at any minute. I explained that I would love to hear what she had to tell me, if she was up to it. And, I would dearly like to listen to her story tonight, because the police had arrested Louise Upton for Dusty’s murder.

Her predictable shock propelled her out of bed. “I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. You still live right off Main Street?”

I told her that we did. She said she’d be right over.

Tom, Julian, Arch, and Gus decided to watch yet another movie, and I was left with a clean house and a bundle of energy the size of a nuclear reactor. The sheaf of unread pages from Dusty’s journal still beckoned.

I scanned through April, May, June, and July, all still with references to “New O.,” and how much she loved him, and how he said he felt as if he had just been born. Apparently their lovemaking was quite athletic, with her saying, “I just can’t keep up with him! Does that sound dirty?”

No, I thought, you poor girl. It just sounds as if you’re in love. But I was still left with the question: Who was this New O.? And if he loved Dusty so much, why wasn’t he over at the Routts’ house offering condolences? I reminded myself that with all I’d had to do at the Routts’ house—bathing and changing Colin, cleaning out the refrigerator, making a meal, taking down the paintings—I’d forgotten to ask about the funeral. St. Luke’s would be absorbing the expense, no doubt, but I had no idea when it was going to be. Maybe I’d see the mysterious Mr. O. then.

Even though it was after eight at night, I must have been daydreaming, because my attention suddenly snapped back. I reread an entry made this month. “October 6: Somebody is taking stuff. I don’t know who. But I am going to FIND OUT.”

Well, what do you know. I raced up the stairs and handed the page to Tom so as not to interrupt Clint Eastwood dispatching about half a dozen bad guys. Then the doorbell rang: K. D. Chenault.

She was dressed for work, in a camel-hair coat covering a sensible brown tweed skirt and white silk blouse. I knew that she, like the other docs, kept a locker down at Southwest Hospital, because the last thing anyone wanted was to bring home blood-spattered scrubs to do in the home laundry. With her chestnut hair pinned up in a twist and her expertly applied makeup, she might have been going off to work at an expensive women’s clothing store or to manage an upscale bank. You never would have guessed that she was about to go attend to folks with gunshot and stab wounds, to horribly mangled car-accident victims, or to kids who had just opened a four-inch gash in their foreheads, slipping in the bathtub.

“Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger,” she said, once she was settled in the kitchen and sipping a soft drink. “It’s just that Richard listens in on my calls, which drives me nuts. And since this involves hospital business, I didn’t want him to have anything to hang on my head at the next meeting with our attorneys. ‘My wife doesn’t guard the confidentiality of her patients,’ that kind of thing. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

I wouldn’t put anything past anyone, I thought, but said nothing. I didn’t care about patients’ records and wondered if this had anything to do with Dusty Routt.

K.D. licked her lips. “Actually, the patient in question is dead.” When she shook her head, a few strands came loose from her French twist. “Let me begin at the beginning.” She inhaled. “Last March, Flight for Life brought an elderly woman into the Southwest ER after she’d been struck by a car. She was a pedestrian up here in Aspen Meadow.”

“I remember, I think. Wasn’t she the lady who was run down on the street outside of Charlie Baker’s last exhibit? I did the catering and she attended the event. I even saw her talking to Charlie for a while. Then we heard the sirens and found out there had been an accident.”

“Yes, that sounds right. The highway patrol came to question the woman at the hospital. But she had already died, so they wanted to talk to me, to see who she was, and if she’d said anything. They said there were no witnesses to this woman being hit. And no skid marks on the pavement.”

An icicle plunged down my back. I asked, “So who was she?”

“Her name was Althea Mannheim, and she was from Utah. I talked to her cousin at length later. Her only relative, living in Boulder now.” K.D.’s voice turned impatient. “The thing is, when they brought Ms. Mannheim in, she was conscious, but hysterical. She was basically talking a bunch of nonsense. Or at least, I thought it was nonsense. She was absolutely covered with blood, plus we were sure she had internal injuries, and she kept saying, ‘Steals. Steals. That’s why I’m here.’ I thought she was just suffering from shock, delirium, that kind of thing. We needed to get her stabilized, and I kept asking her to calm down while the painkiller took effect. She kept saying, ‘Nobody else will tell them so I’m telling them. That bitch your eye steals.’”

“‘Bitch your eye’?”

“I thought maybe she was referring to a woman named Yoreye, as in that bitch, Yoreye. Or something like that. She kept saying, ‘That’s why I’m here. To tell people. That bitch your eye stole our pattern.’”

“‘Bitch your eye stole our pattern,’” I repeated. I wanted to make sure I was hearing this right.

“Then today, you introduced me to Bishop Uriah, from southern Utah.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yes. But a pattern? What pattern? I mean, how many men do you know who sew?”

I nodded, but not because I knew any men who did sewing. My mind was going along different lines: liturgical ones. I was also remembering what Meg had told me, that when she’d driven Charlie home from the party, he’d been agitated, and wanted to hire a private detective. And then there was what I’d just read in Dusty’s journal: that someone was stealing paintings from Charlie’s house. And now I was convinced that in fact someone had tampered with my van so I’d be late the night Dusty was killed. And all of this—all of it—could be related to why and how Dusty had been killed, and by whom.

On the other hand, it could have nothing at all to do with Dusty, or even Uriah Sutherland. It might simply be a coincidence that Althea Mannheim was visiting from Utah, went to Charlie’s exhibit, and was killed in an accident nearby. She indeed might have been mumbling nonsense that K.D. had misinterpreted when she heard the unusual title and name, Bishop Uriah. Uriah certainly seemed an unlikely possibility for a painting thief, especially from a man who was an old and cherished friend. Richard Chenault, it had to be said, was a better possibility as someone who had access to the paintings and the inventories of Charlie’s estate.

“Wait, K.D.” I was thinking how to ask her if she’d seen any of Charlie Baker’s paintings somewhere in that big house that she and Richard still shared. “Do you know anything about Richard’s dealings with Charlie Baker?”

“Couple of things. Why?”

“Well, did you ever see any of Charlie’s paintings in Richard’s part of the house? Paintings that you didn’t think he’d bought?”

She considered. “No. The most we ever do is have some wine together. Okay, it’s not the most we’ve ever done. Once we had a lot of wine,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “And then one thing led to another…”

Aha! I thought. Maybe there was more than one reason they were still sharing a house. And I had to admit, albeit shamefully, that the Jerk had successfully seduced me a couple of times, after we were separated.

“Funny you should ask about Charlie Baker, though,” K.D. said. “The next night, I mean the night after the show, Richard came home just looking miserable. I asked him if he wanted a glass of wine, and he said no, he wanted a glass of bourbon. He hardly ever drinks the hard stuff, Goldy. But he looked like hell, so I fixed him a drink, and I fixed one for myself.” She shook her head, seeming apologetic. “Richard always talks too much when he drinks, and that night was no exception.” She paused and gave me the full benefit of her hazel eyes. “He said Charlie Baker had come into the office that day and changed his will.”

My mouth fell open. “Changed his will?” I echoed. So much for client confidentiality. “Changed his will how?”

“Well, I don’t know, Goldy. Richard wouldn’t tell me that. Why? Do you think Charlie wanting to change his will has something to do with Uriah Sutherland?”

“I’m not sure. I do know the bishop has been involved in setting up the Mountain Pastoral Center, which is being funded by Charlie’s bequest. Maybe Charlie was planning to leave some of his paintings to Uriah, but then what Althea Mannheim told him changed his mind. Or maybe there’s no connection between Mannheim and the bishop at all. You’re not certain exactly what the dying woman was saying, K.D.”

K.D. furrowed her brow and considered. “No, I’m not certain. Still, her words were so strange that they stuck with me. And then when you introduced us at the party…well, you saw how startled I was. I hadn’t had a chance to meet Nora’s father before now. I’ve been pretty busy this year, and then I just tried not to have much to do with anyone at the firm because, well, because of everything. And then this horrible disaster with Dusty happened…and oh my God, then Louise was arrested for it. And now you’re bringing up Charlie Baker.”

A bad thought entered my brain. Althea Mannheim, who may have known something about Uriah Sutherland, had died outside of the gallery mounting Charlie’s last exhibit. Not long after that, Charlie had asked Meg about finding a private investigator…maybe to check on Uriah’s past in southern Utah? And Charlie had also told Richard that he wanted to change his will. The next day…the very next day, Charlie had fallen to his death.

What if Charlie’s death had not been an accident or suicide, what if he’d been pushed? What if everything that had happened so far was connected to Charlie, to his will, or to the stolen artwork? If so, Dusty had been in the thick of it. I figured she must have had a role in Charlie making changes to his will. She’d said as much in her journal: Especially after what I was asked to do tonight. Dusty was the one whom Charlie trusted…maybe even more than he trusted Richard. It made sense that she would have helped him get rid of a bequest to Uriah or whatever he’d wanted altered in the will. And depending on what those changes were, they might have been what led to Dusty’s death.

I said, “This next part’s important, K.D. What happened to the new will?”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask Richard, with Charlie falling down the stairs so soon after Richard had told me Charlie was changing his will.” She snorted. “But he’d sobered up by that time, and didn’t want to talk to me about it.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“I wanted to,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek, “but Richard said he could be disbarred for telling me about the new will, and then I would have to pay for his defense, plus get nothing from the divorce settlement. Oh, we had an awful fight. But in the end, he told me, ‘There is no new will.’”

“I thought there was.”

“No, Richard told me, ‘There’s no new will if the person making it doesn’t come in to sign it, once we have it all typed up.’”

I felt as if all the air had gone out of my body at once. Could the alterations Charlie wanted to make to his will have been unimportant ones? Or had someone murdered Charlie so that the new will would never be valid? Maybe, if, could be. I kept running into dead ends. I wanted to ask K.D. more questions, but at that moment, her cell phone beeped.

“Gotta go,” she told me, once she’d hung up. “They’ve got a kid coming in to the ER whom they suspect has shaken baby syndrome.” She gave me a rueful glance. “And as if I didn’t have enough problems, somebody sideswiped me on the way over here, and I’m going to have to have my damn car—”

“Whoa, whoa,” I said, suddenly alert again. “Listen, K.D., the police are tracking a guy who may have tried to run down someone who’s helping the Routts. And this Althea Mannheim was killed by a hit-and-run driver, remember. A wannabe killer in a car is not something you even want to be thinking about. In fact, would you vamoose out of town for a while?” I was remembering K.D.’s intense, frightened reaction to Uriah’s name at the birthday party. If Nora’s father was somehow involved with Charlie’s or Dusty’s death, or if he’d had a hand in the theft of Charlie’s paintings, he might now view K.D. as a threat. Then again, someone else could wonder what K.D., as Richard’s wife, knew. My paranoia might be running overtime again. Still, at this point it seemed best to be cautious about the good doctor’s safety.

K.D. put on her camel-hair coat. “Well, I suppose I could use a break from Richard and his moods. Not to mention how he listens in on my calls.”

“Best not even to tell him you’re going.” I thought of how Tom had wanted to take Vic right down to the department. “But I’ll need your cell number, because I know Tom, or somebody from the department, will want to talk to you when your shift is over, before you go anywhere.”

“Okay.” She reached inside her purse, rummaged around for a bit, and pulled out a card. “I’m building a house in Santa Fe, with a guesthouse, too. It’s too big for me, but it’s my reward to myself for putting up with Richard and his antics. The guesthouse is done, and I can get on I-25 and drive straight through after I talk to whoever comes down from the sheriff’s department. That card has my Santa Fe number, which Richard doesn’t know, and my cell, which has caller ID.”

She dug around in her purse again and brought out another card. “Almost forgot. I wrote down the name, address, and number of Althea Mannheim’s cousin in Boulder. That’s what I had to go to the hospital for this afternoon. Grace Mannheim, on Pine. Nice lady. Elderly, like her cousin. I know she wouldn’t mind talking to you.”

“You’re going to get out of town as soon as you talk to the cops?” I asked her, just to be sure.

She opened our front door and peered into the darkness. “Well, I suppose. But it’s already past sundown, and when you have to get out of Dodge—” She stopped again, grinning at the stricken expression I knew was on my face. “All right, all right. Can’t you take a joke?”

CHAPTER 17

Once I’d had a shower, I fairly flopped on our mattress. It had been such a long day, with a party, a wrecked Rover, a lot of cooking, and ending with an enigmatic visit from K. D. Chenault. My old pal K.D., who had been sideswiped, and whom I’d urged to get out of town. I’d had wild fluctuations in energy levels all day, and I finally felt as if I’d reached the nadir.

Tom had been in the shower when K.D. had been called away for the shaken baby. When he came out, he said he was getting Julian settled in a sleeping bag between Gus and Arch, in Arch’s room. From the sound of their talking down the hall, it was going to be a Long Night in Boyville. I was, as ever, thankful for Julian’s presence in our family.

Once Tom had moved into bed next to me, I told him about K.D.’s visit. When I got to the point about the will change, Tom sat up, turned on the light, and reached for his trusty spiral notebook. I said, “I think Dusty referred to the will change in her journal. She said there was something she wasn’t allowed to talk about. Dusty was the person Charlie trusted, so I think it’s entirely possible she helped Richard draw up the new will.”

Tom finished taking notes, then called the department and got patched in to one of the detectives who was working on Dusty’s murder. He related the salient details, then gave the fellow K.D.’s numbers.

When he was back beside me, he reached out and pulled me in close, snuggling my breasts into his warm, still-damp chest until I giggled.

“I’m so glad you don’t have to go down to the department,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “Then I don’t have to explain to you why we have to gather a lot of information while we’re in the process of a murder investigation. A lot. And unlike some caterers, we don’t go barging in trying to gather evidence and arrest people—AGH!”

I’d found just the spot on his abdomen that, if I tickled it with my fingertips, would drive Tom wild.

And it didn’t stop there.

Sunday morning arrived cool and sunny, with one of those deep blue skies you see in Colorado and nowhere else. Most of the snow and ice had melted, and the golden-leaved aspens quaked in a breeze off the mountains. Julian and I whipped around the kitchen, drinking espresso, checking our supplies, and readying all the foodstuffs to take to St. Luke’s. To Tom I had given the unenviable job of rousting Gus and Arch from their warm beds, getting them showered, and making sure they were dressed in clean, not-needing-mending clothes. Luckily, the boys wore the same sizes, so if there was a sock or shirt missing, they could probably do some borrowing to come up with two clean outfits and matched pairs of shoes.

Tom also got the job of stuffing the guys with some breakfast, as the service was long. No promise of after-service brunch, it had been my experience, was enough to get a kid to quit complaining about being starving during church. Tom promised to meet us at the church fifteen minutes before the service. This was a good thing, as I wanted to have plenty of time to visit with Wink Calhoun, if she bothered to show up, as I’d requested.

Once Julian and I had set up in the church kitchen, the Episcopal Church Women arrived and began unfolding the long tables that would hold the food and beverages. While Julian was doing his perfect slicing job on the fruit, I finished the Prosciutto Bites and laid them out on cookie sheets. This particular combination of crunchy, warm croissant, piquant preserves, delectable prosciutto, and dots of cream cheese had been a great favorite at H&J. I wanted to pop one in my mouth, but resisted. I was stronger than an adolescent boy, right?

Wrong. So…there I was munching on one of the Bites, when Wink Calhoun, her eyes still rimmed with red, appeared in the church kitchen.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, without preamble.

The kitchen was empty except for the two of us. Keeping my voice neutral, I said, “I need to ask you about your affair with Donald Ellis.”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do, Wink. Other people saw you together.”

She began to cry. “I can’t talk to you about it.”

“I don’t want to intrude unnecessarily into your personal life, but this is important. Was Dusty involved with Donald?” This made her sob even harder. “Wink, you said you wanted to help figure out what happened to Dusty, and you promised you’d answer my questions. I told you we think Dusty had a new man in her life, a relationship she was keeping secret. Could it have been Donald Ellis?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I was involved with him, yes. But I broke it off because I felt so guilty, you know, having a fling with a married man.”

“Did Nora know about your affair?”

“I don’t think so. Donald hates Nora, though, did you find that out?”

“No. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“They have terrible fights. Once she was so mad at him, she hit him across the face. Not a slap, but a real”—here she demonstrated—“whack.”

“How about you, do you get along with Nora?”

“She’s been pretty nice to me. We’ve played squash a few times, since I told her I played in high school. And there was that time I told you about, when she stood up to Ookie for me at the club, but that may have been just to annoy Ookie. They’re always trying to one-up each other.”

Peachy, I thought. I decided to change course. “Do you know anything about Charlie Baker changing his will right before he died?”

“What? Who told you that?”

“How about paintings missing from Charlie’s house?”

Wink’s mouth hung open. “Who told you that?”

Out in the narthex, the choir was warming up.

This was my cue to remind Wink that the sheriff’s department would not be happy that she had been withholding critical information from them. But she started to cry again, so instead I simply told her not to share the details of our conversation with anyone. I took off my apron and went in search of my family, not feeling as if I’d really gotten any closer to the truth.

Gus’s grandparents arrived, looking nervous. But they were so enthusiastically greeted by Gus, that their agitation seemed to melt. They, in turn, embraced Arch, which made him feel wonderful, although he pretended to act embarrassed. With no grandparents living nearby, he reveled in their attention, their store-bought cupcakes, their inappropriate, but still treasured, gifts of stuffed animals, jacks, and marbles. We were all like the boys’ clothing: we could fill in one another’s gaps and, between us, make a big family.

During the service, I watched Bishop Uriah Sutherland closely. K.D. had given me information about him that might or might not shed light on who he really was.

Could he be the thief who took Charlie’s paintings? Even worse, could he have killed or been involved in the deaths of Dusty or Charlie? I shuddered to think such a thing. It definitely didn’t sound plausible. Some mumbled words from a dying woman wouldn’t be enough to get a search warrant for the Ellises’ house. Yet I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that those same mumbled words might have been a secret about Uriah, as K.D. suspected, something very damning, and that those words might have been what Althea told Charlie Baker at his last show.

I focused my attention on the service. Gus beamed when he flipped back his hair, wet with holy water, after he’d been dunked. He looked right at me and smiled. Dear Gus, I thought. I am so thankful for you.

The highlight of the service was the moment when Meg Blatchford, whose smile was as wide as Gus’s, announced to the congregation: “You may welcome the newly baptized!” And everyone clapped.

After the service, parishioners young and old chowed down enthusiastically on Asparagus Quiche, Prosciutto Bites, fruit salad, and sheet cake. It didn’t take long for the little kids to realize that their plastic plates—slick with bits of asparagus, jam, and cake frosting—made really great Frisbees. Before you could say “definitely unorthodox,” disks were sailing across the parish hall more thickly than flying saucers in a science-fiction movie. Bishop Sutherland’s chasuble took a direct hit from a plate covered with plum jam. Luckily, several members of the Episcopal Church Women insisted on bustling forward with cold wet towels to minister to the bishop and his vestments. He laughed just as he had before, at Donald’s party, with guacamole down his shirt. He seemed jovial and relaxed, and imagining him as a thief or killer began to seem foolish.

The only dark cloud to pass across the lovely morning occurred when Richard Chenault, fire coming out of his eyes and sparks coming off of his silver hair, stalked up to me in the parish hall and asked what I’d done with his wife.

“What have I done with her? Nothing!”

“She was on the phone with you. You told her to come see you—”

“Are you adding eavesdropping to your list of sins, Richard?” I asked mildly.

“She came to visit you, didn’t she? Next thing I know, her answering service is saying she’ll be out of town for a couple of weeks! And the hospital won’t tell me where she is!” He must have realized he was sounding a bit shrill, so he forcibly got himself under control. “I just want to talk to her.”

I didn’t say what I thought, which was: If you’re getting a divorce, why don’t you go through your attorneys?

“Goldy,” he said, “I’m sorry. I apologize for my tone. I just…need to talk to her.” He licked his lips, then said, “I understand from…from, well, I understand that you were quite close to my niece.”

“Yes, she was a neighbor. And a friend.” I swallowed, determined not to melt down.

“She didn’t leave anything for me, did she? With you? The cops won’t tell me anything, and I’m missing some important papers.”

“She didn’t leave anything with me,” I said truthfully. “Did you talk to Sally?”

When he straightened his tie and said yes, I felt a flash of fear: What if Sally had told him about the paintings I had taken? Had I told her not to tell anyone? I couldn’t remember.

“With Louise arrested—” he began. “You did hear that, didn’t you?” When I nodded, he said, “With Louise under arrest, the office is once again being searched. So I don’t believe we’ll be needing you tomorrow morning.”

The ultimate power jab. But I smiled anyway. “Thank you for telling me. I guess I’ll see you and the Ellises tomorrow night. At the ribbon cutting for the Mountain Pastoral Center.” He looked momentarily confused. “I’m catering the dinner afterward.”

Richard turned and made a discreet motion to Donald and Nora Ellis, as well as Alonzo and Ookie Claggett, all of whom had been hovering nearby. I smiled in spite of myself. Richard and K.D. had joined St. Luke’s because they’d wanted to be married there. Nora Ellis was an Episcopalian because her father was a clergyman, and it was easy to see how Donald had taken the path of least resistance. Alonzo and Ookie, I suspected, had joined for social-climbing purposes. But before I could give voice to these theories, Richard and his retinue departed.

I mumbled, “I am not going to let this upset me, I am not going to let this upset me, I am not going to let this upset me,” all the way out to the church kitchen, where I pulled out my cell phone and one of the cards K.D. had given me. I punched in the numbers for Grace Mannheim, cousin to Althea Mannheim, the hit-and-run victim whom K.D. had tried to save in the Southwest Emergency Room. Because I needed to know if Althea Mannheim did indeed have anything to do with Bishop Uriah Sutherland.

I thought I would get no answer, or a machine. But Grace Mannheim answered on the first ring. I identified myself and nervously announced that I was a friend of Dr. K. D. Chenault, who had treated her cousin, and would she be willing to speak with me? Today, if possible? I was coming to Boulder anyway, I offered, hoping I didn’t sound rude or forward.

She immediately told me to call her Grace. She heard the chaos in the background and told me laughingly that she had already been to church. Yes, she would be glad to see me that afternoon when I was coming over anyway. She might be out for her afternoon walk, or her P.M. constitutional, as she called it, but I could wait for her on her porch.

Tom agreed to take care of the boys, who wanted to do homework together at Gus’s place. Arch asked if he could drive Tom’s sedan to the Vikarioses’ house. I could have married Tom all over again when he immediately said, “Of course.”

Once Julian and I made it over to Boulder, I dropped him off at his apartment, as promised, so that he could gather some clothes and odds and ends. I promised to pick him up in an hour, and took off to meet the departed Althea’s cousin.

Grace Mannheim lived in a creamy-lilac Victorian on the north side of Pine Street in the old Mapleton area of Boulder. Bordered on either side by lovely old homes, Pine Street sweeps upward in a graceful arc to the west, where it is bordered by a particularly spectacular section of the Front Range. As per my phone instructions from Grace, I waited on the house’s front porch while she was out having her afternoon constitutional.

After about ten minutes, I was almost enjoying a warm autumn breeze that was showering golden sycamore leaves onto Grace’s thickly green lawn, a lawn that bore only a trace of the previous day’s snow. I couldn’t completely enjoy the wind and the leaves, though, because I’d had another disheartening, and ultimately puzzling, encounter with Sally Routt on my way out of the house.

As I’d been backing out of my driveway, she’d appeared at my driver’s-side mirror, her face gaunt, her eyes wild. She’d asked if I’d found out anything new about her daughter. I said no, which was technically the truth. She looked questioningly at Julian, who shook his head.

“I had a very strange visit from Richard Chenault,” she said, her voice lowered almost to a whisper.

I’d turned off the van engine. “Should we go inside?” I asked.

“No, no,” she replied, glancing from side to side. But there were only kids outside, calling to one another as they kicked balls back and forth in the street, which was almost dry.

“You know, he’s the brother of my ex, who skipped out when I was pregnant with Colin.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Richard gave me a check for eleven thousand dollars. He said it was the most he could give me without incurring the gift tax.”

My voice wobbled when I said, “Eleven thousand bucks, huh?”

Sally hooked her hair behind her ear, then made her face into an agonizing mass of wrinkles. “He wanted to know”—her voice cracked—“if Dusty had left anything for him. I said, ‘Yeah, Richard, she left her secondhand clothes, what do you think?’” Sally shook her head. “I should have been nicer, I guess.” She began to weep.

I eased out of the van and embraced Sally. “Don’t worry, everything is going to work out.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“He wanted to know,” she sobbed, “if she’d left any artwork. ‘Anything at all,’ he said. What a prick! I said, ‘Yeah, Richard, check out the Picassos on the walls of my Habitat for Humanity house. You want to buy one?’ Oh, I should have been nicer, I should have been grateful. I’m such a bitch. That’s what my exes always used to say, and I’m sure that’s what Richard was thinking.”

“No, no, no.” I patted her back.

Sally had raised her fatigued eyes to me. “Should I have told him about the paintings you took out of my father’s room?”

“Absolutely not. No way. Not now, not ever. Don’t talk about them with anybody except the cops.”

“Have you made any more progress in your investigation?” When I shook my head, she said, “Was he accusing Dusty of stealing? Is that why she was killed?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

“The police called and said they’ve arrested the woman who manages the H&J office.”

“I know they have.”

“Do you think this woman strangled my Dusty?”

“Actually, I’m not sure. But listen, Sally, I want to warn you about Richard, or anybody else, who comes over to your house. Would you consider staying with us for a while?”

“No! I’m not being forced out of my home, not after everything else we’ve been through.”

“Would you please, please keep your doors and windows locked, then? And if anything strange or suspicious occurs, you need to call the sheriff’s department right away.”

But Sally didn’t want to talk anymore. She let out another sob and covered her mouth. Then she turned and dashed back across the street, overcome with tears.

“Dammit to hell, anyway,” I said in a low voice.

“Damn what to hell?” a woman’s voice demanded, startling me. I turned to the sidewalk, where a tall, tan, slender woman, her short white hair fluffing out all around her head, her white eyebrows raised expectantly, approached me.

“You could hear me out there?” I asked, stunned.

Her arms pumped enthusiastically as she made short shrift of her sidewalk. “I work with the deaf,” she explained. “I read lips.”

“You could see my lips from out there?”

“Just call me Superwoman.” She took off a glove and grasped my hand. “Grace Mannheim. You must be Goldy.” Her cheeks were pink, her eyes a very dark blue. She wore a no-nonsense gray sweatshirt and the athletic type of walking shoes I’m always telling myself to get. “How about some spiced tea?” When I said yes, thanks, the smile in her elfin face brightened even more.

“How ’bout you put some of that super-lipreading powder in my tea,” I said, as she held the white painted door open for me. I walked down an immaculately clean wood-floored hallway almost bare of furniture. Was Grace Mannheim poor, or did she just like the spare look? Once I was in her sunny yellow kitchen, with its high ceilings and yellow painted cabinets, I decided on the latter. She was still laughing at my superpowder comment.

“My neighbors claim I work for the CIA, my lipreading is that good.” She dropped tea bags into a pair of mugs, picked up an electric kettle, and filled them with steaming water. “That’s just Boulder paranoia. The garbage people moved to smaller trucks, and everyone insisted the trucks were really police vans with advanced listening devices. No matter how many times the waste folks said it was because everyone was recycling, and there wasn’t as much trash as before, it did no good. But don’t try to tell left-wingers the government isn’t keeping track of them, or it’ll destroy their reason for living.” She placed the mugs on a tray that already held a plate of what looked like homemade chocolate-chip cookies.

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” I said, feeling apologetic.

“Let’s go back to the porch,” she said, lifting the tray and indicating the front of the house with her chin.

Once we were settled on wicker rocking chairs on the porch, I thanked her again for the tea and cookies, and got to the matter at hand. “As I told you on the phone, I’m wondering if you could tell me more about your cousin Althea.”

Grace Mannheim’s face turned solemn. “You’re not really wondering about her, are you? I mean, since you’re from Aspen Meadow, I’m assuming you want to know about the accident.”

I frowned. “Yes. I could read the police report, of course, but I pretty much know what that’s going to say, since the accident was covered in our local paper. Hit-and-run, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they never found the driver.”

Grace Mannheim fiddled with her teaspoon. “No.” Her voice had turned soft. “No, they didn’t.”

“Did she tell you why she came to visit Aspen Meadow?”

“She was going to an art show. Which I thought was odd, since my cousin did not collect art.”

“Do you know why she was going to the art show?”

Grace sighed. “All she would tell me was that she wanted, and I’m quoting here, ‘to make sure right was done.’”

I said, “She didn’t give you any hint as to what that meant?”

Grace shook her head. “Althea was not the gossiping type.”

“I’m not meaning to gossip,” I replied, then reminded myself to keep the heat out of my voice. “A young friend of mine was killed. A neighbor. A member of the church,” I added, in the event that would help my case. I could hear Tom’s voice inside my head: You have no shame. As delicately as possible, I said, “It’s possible that the person who mowed down your cousin killed my young friend.”

Grace’s voice turned mildly sarcastic. “Then surely the police should be coming to visit me.”

Don’t call me Shirley, my brain mocked, but I said only, “It’s more a hunch of mine. The cops in Furman County are very shorthanded—well, not really—”

“So they’ve asked a young married caterer to help them with their case? What does your son say?”

“My son?” I asked, bewildered. Maybe this woman didn’t work for the CIA, but who was she, Daughter of Sherlock Holmes? “You know I’m a caterer? Married? With a kid? How?”

Grace Mannheim laughed. “I’m a walker, as I told you. You called and asked if you could see me, and I said yes. But I’d already finished my P.M. constitutional, and I just kept walking until you arrived. I came up behind your van. I know every vehicle on this street, and ‘Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right’ is not one of them. You wear a wedding ring, and your van has two bumper stickers: ‘My Son Is an Honor Student at CBHS.’ That’s the proud mama’s sticker. The other one? ‘Give Blood, Play Lacrosse!’ I would venture that one is your son’s. How am I doing so far?”

“You should be investigating the death of Dusty Routt, not me.”

“Ah, so your neighbor was Dusty Routt, a member of your church? And you’re an Episcopalian, too?”

“You’re going to have to show me where you keep that crystal ball of yours,” I said, with true admiration.

She smiled, pleased. “I play Colorado Women’s Senior Softball with Meg Blatchford. I also give to Habitat for Humanity, and Meg has told me about the family, the Routts, that St. Luke’s helped support through that program. I don’t know them, though. I am sorry your young friend is the victim in this case.”

“Sounds as if the Furman County Sheriff’s Department could use your help, though.”

“The Boulder Police Department could use my help,” she said, her voice taking on that withering sarcasm again.

Let’s not go there, I thought, and then was thankful that my cell phone started ringing. Grace waved that I should go ahead. It was Julian.

“Are you coming to get me, boss? Or should I take the bus to Aspen Meadow? I might get there sooner.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be there.”

“So did the lady help?”

“Yeah, she’s great. We’re almost done.”

“I’m getting old here.”

“Ten minutes.”

Julian groaned.

“Well, someone wants you,” Grace said. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very helpful.”

“Actually, your cousin might have known that young man who just called. His name is Julian, and he’s an Episcopalian from Utah, too. Sorry, maybe not. I know it’s a big state. A very big state. But not with too many Episcopalians, right? Anyway, Julian was involved in the church there, in Bluff.”

Grace brightened again. “Is he Navajo?”

“No, but he spent a lot of time with them when he was growing up. Much to our son’s amazement, Julian can speak Navajo, too, the way the code talkers did in the Pacific during World War Two.”

“Goodness me.”

Neither one of us moved. Grace seemed to share my disappointment at not being able to give me more substantial information.

Finally I said, “There isn’t anyone up here, or in Utah, who would know more about what your cousin was doing in Boulder, so far away from home?”

Grace’s head made a quick shake. “Believe me, I wanted to know. She hadn’t told me, which was frustrating, and when she was killed, I went down to southern Utah, where she lived. Of course, I had to sell her house and dispose of her effects, but I also wanted to see if there was anyone who could shed light on the purpose of her trip. There was only one woman at St. Stephen’s who seemed to know something, but when I pressed her on it, she said, ‘I’m not allowed to talk about it.’”

“Talk about what?”

“That’s what’s so frustrating; I don’t know. There was no journal, no diary, there were no notes, nothing that Althea had left that would indicate why she would think she had to go to an art show to make sure right was done.”

I pulled a pad from my purse. “Could you give me that woman’s name? It’s a long shot, but my husband is a homicide investigator with Furman County, and he might be able to get the cops down there to ask her a few questions.”

“Frederica Tuller.” It was the first time I’d heard any bitterness in Grace’s voice.

I exhaled heavily. “You went through all your cousin’s stuff.” It was more a statement than a question, but I was just making sure.

Grace canted her head to one side. “She’d specified that all of her clothing be donated. I went through every pocket. She gave me her small amount of furniture. I checked every drawer. There was nothing.”

Dammit to hell, indeed.

“When I got back home, her suitcase was still here. That’s the one thing I didn’t donate. I gave the clothes away and threw out most of the odds and ends—you know, tissues, candy.”

Still feeling dispirited, I did manage to say “Most?”

Grace’s smile was wan. “My cousin loved magazines. There were five of them in her suitcase, can you imagine? I told her she’d rupture a disk in her back carrying such a heavy load, and she told me she liked having reading material on trips, even if I disapproved. I told her I didn’t disapprove, but I pointed out that she hardly ever traveled, and these days, you can get Woman’s Day and Family Circle almost everywhere. That’s when she said I should mind my own business. But she said it in a nice way. That was the way she was. She said I could throw her reading material away as soon as she was done with it; she’d just buy more at the airport. She knows—she knew—I’m not a pack rat. Far from it, I like clear spaces.” Grace sighed. “Really, though, I haven’t had the heart to throw those magazines away.”

My cell rang again: the caller ID said it was Julian. I threw the phone back in my purse.

Grace frowned. “Your young man is impatient. Shall I get you the magazines? You can take them home if you want. In fact, you can toss them—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I interrupted, although I couldn’t imagine how women’s magazines would help the investigation. “Thank you. I’ll mail them back to you, I promise.”

She disappeared, and I considered calling Julian and bawling him out. But a moment later, Grace pushed through her screen door holding an old grocery bag. “Thank you for being willing to send them back. I don’t think of myself as sentimental, but I guess I am.”

I stood up and took the bag. Then I hugged her. It was the second time that day that I’d embraced someone who’d lost a beloved relative, and I didn’t particularly like the way it made me feel.

Once I was back in my van, my cell phone began ringing again. What was with Julian, anyway? We had no catering events that night, we weren’t going into H&J in the morning, and we would have plenty of time to prep the food for the next night’s dinner when we got home. I resolved to give him a good ribbing as soon as I picked him up.

Feeling perverse, I reached into Grace Mannheim’s grocery sack and pulled out her cousin’s magazines. Family Circle. Oprah. People. Woman’s Day. And The Living Church, the national magazine of the Episcopal Church. I held each one up and shook it, but no paper with Althea’s reason for attending Charlie Baker’s last show fluttered out. Feeling desperate, I looked for dog-eared pages, too, and in the first four, there were none.

The Living Church did have a dog-eared article, however, and I flipped to it and began to read.

My cell phone began its incessant ringing again. But I didn’t answer it. I couldn’t. I thought my heart had stopped.

CHAPTER 18

The article, from February of this year, was entitled “The Gift That Gives Forever.” There was a picture of a wan and clearly weakened Charlie Baker, his brave smile a tiny line within his moon face. The article talked about the unusual aspects of Charlie Baker’s will. Since Mr. Baker, as the magazine deferentially referred to him, had been an orphan raised by the Christian Brothers, he was bequeathing half of his total estate to the Christian Brothers High School. The other half of Mr. Baker’s considerable fortune would be used to build and operate a retreat house for clergy, tentatively named the Mountain Pastoral Center. Buried at the end of the article was the following sentence, which Althea Mannheim had underlined: “Charlie Baker has named retired bishop Uriah Sutherland, formerly of the Diocese of Southern Utah, to be director of the center in perpetuity, with a salary to match his responsibilities.”

I had known that Uriah was helping set up the pastoral center and had continued the work after Charlie’s death, and I had speculated that Charlie might have left his good friend something in his will. But I’d had no clue that Charlie was granting the bishop a sinecure post as part of his estate. Besides Charlie’s lawyers, only Uriah and officials at the Diocese of Colorado would have been informed of the bequest. Since Charlie’s will was still going through probate, Uriah could not yet officially take up his duties as director of the center, but it wasn’t unusual for the diocese to issue a press release to record a gift that was coming. It makes the donor—the testamentary, if you want to get technical—happy to be celebrated for his munificence during his lifetime.

I didn’t read The Living Church—I didn’t have time—and apparently no one in Marla’s gossip network did either, as we’d picked up no word of Uriah’s windfall. Certainly, his position-to-be had not been publicized in Aspen Meadow. But in Utah, Althea Mannheim had seen the article about it, and had promptly traveled to Colorado and met with Charlie Baker. Which meant that she had indeed been talking about the bishop when she was dying in the Emergency Room. Suddenly the vague possibility of connections had become a live circuit.

So the question became, What specifically had Althea known about Uriah and imparted to Charlie? If Uriah had stolen something, as Althea seemed to claim, what was she accusing him of stealing? K.D. had thought Althea had muttered “a pattern.” Hmm.

As Grace had pointed out, I was an Episcopalian, too, and a long-time one, at that. Plus, I was married to a cop. So I had all kinds of knowledge about the church and its liturgies, and unfortunately, I knew all too well about the valuable ecclesiastical stuff that could be filched. One time, Tom had prosecuted thieves who’d stolen a gold cross from St. Luke’s. After that, Father Biesbrouck had been forced to lock up the church building at night. Another time, a shady husband of a member of the Altar Guild had purloined a jewel-encrusted chalice, and tried to pawn it.

But there was another item of potential value that someone could steal. I doubted that Bishop Uriah, aka Bitch Yoreye, had pocketed a pattern. I conjectured—and maybe it was a leap, but not that much of one—that he’d pilfered a paten, the dish that holds the Communion wafers at the Eucharist.

If the bishop had stolen a paten, and if this had successfully been kept secret, could the bishop have stolen paintings, too?

Although I was trying to wean myself off of cell-phone usage while I was driving, I did put in a call to Tom. If it was possible that Bishop Uriah stole something, and delivering the news had had deadly consequences for Althea Mannheim, then it was time to get law enforcement to bring in Frederica Tuller, ASAP. Perhaps she could be scared into breaking whatever confidentiality she’d felt bound to keep, by hearing about what it meant to be a material witness after the fact.

When I’d given Tom an abbreviated version of my visit with Grace Mannheim and the article in The Living Church, he said he would get right on the phone with law enforcement in Utah. Meanwhile, he said, he was fixing Mexican food for us for dinner. And oh yes, the events planner with the Diocese of Colorado had called, and could we please prepare a separate vegetarian entrée for tomorrow night? Two of the attorneys did not eat meat.

“Not at meals, anyway,” I muttered, but Tom only laughed. I said we should be home in an hour.

“Finally!” Julian cried when he hopped in the car. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Whole Foods is having a special on organically raised chicken, and I thought you might want to pick some up for tomorrow night.”

“We could do that, but you’ll be delighted to know you were right. We do indeed need to come up with a vegetarian main dish for a couple of lawyers. And pick up some high-quality whipping cream, would you? We need a multilayered, show-stopping dessert. A dark torte.”

Like Tom, Julian laughed. But at Whole Foods, I gave him free rein to choose ingredients to make whatever main dish he thought would suit the dinner. Then he got serious. And he appeared flattered.

A little over an hour later, we were all back in our kitchen, bustling around with our various projects. Arch and Gus were spending the night over at the Vikarioses’ house. All weekend homework had been done, they’d assured Tom, and Gus’s grandparents would take them to school the next morning. I certainly hoped the two boys would not get tired of each other, but Tom assured me that they had quite a few years to catch up on being brothers, and they were going to be just fine.

Julian announced he was going to come up with an Artichoke and Brie Pie for the next night. Once he’d decided on that, he concentrated on slicing Brie and lightly steaming artichokes. He filled a deep pie dish with the egg-laced mélange, placed it in the oven, then hunted around our cupboards for some dried fruits. Once he’d found some glacé apricots, he began melting dark bittersweet chocolate and unsalted butter over the stove and said he would have some Chocolate Lovers’ Dipped Fruits ready to go with, as he disdainfully put it, “your showstopper.”

Yeesh!

For my part, I needed a dark torte, one that did not include chocolate, so the flavors from Julian’s dessert wouldn’t clash with my own. I found some eggs in the walk-in, then worked on pulverizing zwieback biscuits and pecans, locating the most deeply flavored cinnamon money could buy, as well as measuring out ground cloves that were so fragrant they made me want to swoon.

Tom was putting the finishing touches on a sauce made of fresh tomatoes, chilies, and onions that he intended to pour over a dish of fat cheese enchiladas that he had already made for us for dinner. About halfway through mixing up the torte, I had some trouble stirring all the ingredients into the batter I’d concocted. So I asked Tom for help.

“I’m making a dark torte, husband. Could you help?”

“A tort like a wrong, or a torte like a cake?”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Miss G., with you there’s no telling.”

Honestly, that man. The three of us were having so much fun working together in the kitchen, I began to ponder the age-old question posed by the same folks who came up with the chicken-and-egg conundrum: Which is more fun, cooking or eating?

Well. As soon as I sank my teeth into Tom’s juicy, fat, sizzling enchiladas, with their filling of three luscious melted cheeses spurting out beneath his savory topping of chilies, onions, and tomatoes from our own plants, I knew the answer to that one. And it wasn’t that cooking was more fun.

“You haven’t asked how I did with Utah law enforcement,” Tom said, when we’d all oohed and aahed over his enchiladas.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have heard back this quickly!” I exclaimed.

“Oho, Frederica Tuller sang like the proverbial Arizona cardinal.”

“She’s in Utah,” Julian reminded him.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t think of a good—”

“Tom!”

“Take it easy, Miss G. All right. To escape possible prosecution for obstruction of justice, Frederica Tuller told us the whole story. The reason Althea Mannheim probably was reluctant to tell her cousin Grace why she was visiting is that it was something belonging to their mutual grandparents that had been stolen. An antique gold chalice and paten, used for Communion services on Holy Days there at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. But they were found at Bishop Sutherland’s residence. When he was apprehended, he said the chalice and paten had been given to him, not to the cathedral. Which of course was baloney, since they’d been used at the cathedral since long before he’d gotten there.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well,” Tom interjected, “for the church’s sake, everything got covered up. Because once Bishop Sutherland was caught, he worked out a deal with the Diocese of Southern Utah. A confidential deal, with the only people participating being the bishop-elect, the chancellor, who’s their lawyer, I guess—”

“That’s right,” I said.

“And Bishop Sutherland.”

“How did they ever apprehend him?” I asked.

“That’s where our friend Althea Mannheim comes in. You see, she’s on the Altar Guild. And even though Bishop Sutherland had counted on getting away with this, he hadn’t counted on Althea Mannheim discovering the loss…and breaking into his house and searching it until she found them!”

“I’ve heard of taking the law into your own hands,” I said.

“This is the Wild West,” Julian said. “What did they do to Althea?”

“You ever try to arrest an elderly woman who’s just uncovered, via breaking and entering, a three-million-dollar heist?” Tom asked mildly. “Piece of advice: don’t.”

“Three million dollars?” I repeated, incredulous.

“Black-market value of antique gold chalice and paten,” Tom said ruefully.

Julian asked, “Did the church get their stuff back?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “And Uriah Sutherland claimed he had heart problems. That’s how he got out of Utah with his reputation more or less intact.”

“Less and less,” I said, “the more I know. Do you think Uriah Sutherland ran down Althea Mannheim?”

“We don’t know,” Tom said. “But we’re working on that, too.”

The next morning, it snowed. Gus and Arch called to say how ticked off they were that CBHS was still having classes. But as Gus’s grandfather drove oh-so-slowly down to Denver, the radio announced that CBHS had been closed after all. Arch called us, gleeful, from the road.

The plumbing contractor who’d been working on the lines at the Roundhouse called to say he had good news and bad news. The good news was that the plumbing lines were done and that the Roundhouse was good to go for our dinner tonight. The bad news was that his subcontractors had tracked in “quite a bit” of mud over the past couple of weeks. If we were going to go ahead with the dinner in the Roundhouse that night, we might want to come in and do some cleaning.

I said, “You can’t win.”

Tom announced that they’d called from the department asking him to come in early, but he could stave them off for a few hours to help with the cleaning. I told him to go on, deal with Louise Upton. I’d rather clean.

Julian cheerfully offered to help me with the scrubbing. Marla, who had had a sore throat—all that gossiping, Julian teased her—since the party Saturday afternoon, had missed the christening and was therefore “starved,” as she put it, for news. She would go to the grocery store and buy ammonia, buckets, and brushes, she promised, and might even help us do the work, she promised further, if we would fill her in on what she’d missed over the past—well, let’s see—day.

We said we’d take all the help we could get.

The actual mess at the Roundhouse would have been colossally depressing if I had not had Julian and Marla to help clean up. Marla, dressed in sequined orange jeans and silk T-shirt with matching headband, proved true to her word and immediately began wiping down the tables in the Roundhouse’s hexagonal dining room. Julian had claimed the kitchen, with at least half an inch of dried mud covering most of the wood floor, as his special province to get into working order.

“You two will want to visit anyway,” he said by way of dismissal. “And I’ve heard all the latest gossip from Goldy already.”

So I told Marla everything as we worked for six hours cleaning the Roundhouse. I told her about the paintings and inventories Dusty had hidden in her blind grandfather’s room, the arrest of Louise Upton (“I never trusted her” was Marla’s comment), my visits with K. D. Chenault and Grace Mannheim, and Bishop Uriah Sutherland’s stealing of valuable antiques. And then there was Charlie Baker’s changed will, the contents of which I doubted Richard Chenault would give up without a fight over a client’s right to confidentiality. Oh, confidentiality! Is it ever enforced?

“And it may not matter to Richard,” I commented bitterly, “since Charlie’s dead.”

“Charlie is indeed dead,” Marla replied. “But Uriah or no Uriah, once Charlie’s will is done slogging its way through probate, this Mountain Pastoral Center will get built, and Charlie will live through an institution that will do good things for clergy. Needed things.” She looked around the dining room as she stretched her back. “Listen, girlfriend, I’m officially wiped out. I’m supposed to be going to this ribbon cutting, and coming back here for the dinner, since I’m one of the ones who put up additional money so that the center could be started before Charlie’s estate was settled.”

“Oho,” I said, “so that’s how they got the construction going so early.”

“It is indeed,” said Marla. “But Meg Blatchford will be coming, too, to both the ribbon cutting and the dinner. So the evening won’t be totally without the possibility of fun. Meg,” she added, “was a great believer in Charlie and his work, too.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

Marla said she was too sweaty to give me a hug, but would give me a huge one once she returned for the dinner.

Julian had wrought a miracle in the kitchen, every surface of which sparkled. This was a good thing, as it was already four o’clock. At five, the guests were having champagne—paid for by an anonymous donor, the events coordinator had assured me when she dropped off the ice cream—up by the construction site. I chuckled and shook my head. Marla had probably heard the diocese wasn’t planning to serve booze at the ribbon cutting and had immediately rectified that situation.

At twenty to five, when I had almost worked my way through the necessary pounding of the chicken breasts, my cell rang. Aspen Meadow Imports? I was sure it was a wrong number, but I answered it anyway.

“This is Gary over at A-M Imports,” came an insistent, hoarse male voice. “You the lady tore the door off the Rover?”

“Um, well, sort of.”

“Well, is you or isn’t you?” More impatient this time.

“I am! I am! Have you found a replacement door already?”

“No, but what I do got is a bear coming down every night, getting into our garbage! Had to put it inside, lock the doors, you unnerstand?”

“Yes, but I’ve got a dinner—”

“Just listen, will ya? You got garbage in this damn Rover! And it stinks! Bear comes down every night, starts pawing at the garage door, he can’t get in, so last night he broke one of the garage windows—”

“Okay, okay,” I said, feverishly imagining the guests at the ribbon cutting swilling their champagne and commenting to one another about how hungry they were getting. “Tell me what you need.”

“What I need? What I need is for you to come get your trash, lady! We’re on Highway 203, near the innerstate. Close at five. You don’t come get this garbage, I’m rolling the Rover into the street.”

“No, don’t do that—”

But he was gone.

“Julian,” I said desperately, “we’ve got a problem.” I explained to him about the garbage situation, and how it was my fault.

He stopped working on the wild rice. “Oh my, I forgot all about that trash.”

“So did I. It was back when I first suspected Bishop Uriah was up to something. He was listening too intently to some of the conversations at the party, and I just thought…oh, never mind. It was a long shot. But if I don’t go get the garbage, Ghastly Grammar Gary is going to roll the Rover into the street—”

“You want me to go get the trash bags?” asked Julian, eyeing his watch. “Or are you asking if you should…wait. You go. I’ve been working in a restaurant, I can get these dishes out in a hurry. I know what I’m doing, Goldy. You’ll be back by the time we serve.”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t. Because the snow we’d had the previous evening had turned to ice with the setting of the sun, it took my catering van with its nearly bald tires almost forty minutes to get to Gary’s, well past closing time. Gary, who’d stayed late, was none too happy. But then he saw my van with its logo, and he hit me with a barrage of questions about the best way to cook brats. Unfortunately, I couldn’t ignore this interrogation because Gary still had the Rover locked inside his garage with its bear-broken window. I didn’t ask him why he hadn’t moved the car out into the street as he’d threatened, because at that point I was ready to roll Gary out into the highway myself.

“Just cook the brats in beer!” I cried, exasperated. This, like “Drink me,” was the magic word that opened the door, and Gary explained that that was exactly how he’d told his wife to cook ’em, but she wouldn’t listen.

“I wonder why,” I muttered under my breath, as I grabbed the Ellises’ garbage bag, heaved it over my shoulder, and raced to the van. Gary was still calling questions to me, this time about whether you should put mashed potatoes into taco filling. But I ignored him.

Back at the Roundhouse, Uriah was addressing the group of assembled big donors. Judging from the glazed looks in the guests’ eyes, if they had the chance to do it all over, they would give their money to the library.

“Gosh, boss,” Julian reprimanded me. “What the hell! Did you have to pay him for that trash?”

“Pretty much,” I said, without elaboration.

Julian, as usual, had managed magnificently. Everyone, he reported, had flipped for the Chicken Piccata, with its tart, creamy sauce of lemon, white wine, and butter. The Artichoke-Brie Pie had gone over well with the vegetarians. Even the wild rice and green beans had been hits.

“Thank you so very, very much,” I kept repeating. “What’s happening?”

“They’ve had their torte and chocolate-dipped fruits. Richard Chenault introduced his dear friend Nora Ellis, or at least that’s what he called her. Nora Ellis introduced her father, Uriah, Charlie’s dear friend, and so forth.”

I eyed the stacks of plates. “Can we start on the dishes?”

“Nope. Donald Ellis squirted back here a few minutes ago and said his father-in-law had asked for quiet while he’s talking.”

I sighed. Marla slipped into the kitchen, holding her throat in a gagging motion.

“Tell me how I can give this guy the hook,” she said to me.

“I don’t know,” I said. I was frustrated, too. We had a ton of dishwashing still to do, and it was getting late. “Create a disturbance. Oh, wait. Raise your hand, and ask about the provisions of Charlie’s will. Then ask if he knew if Charlie had planned to change parts of his will.”

“All right,” said Marla.

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” I called after her, but she was gone.

Well, she did it. And the question provided such an excruciatingly awkward moment, followed by several more awkward moments, that Richard Chenault ended up jumping from his seat and thanking everyone for coming. He said they’d be getting a formal notification when Charlie’s will was settled, and more work could be done on the site, blah, blah, blah.

Meg Blatchford, her hands loaded with a stack of plates, followed Marla into the kitchen. “You’ve got guts, Marla,” Meg said admiringly. “I’ll give you that. Do you think you’d ever like to play senior softball?”

“No, no,” Marla replied, but she giggled at the thought.

“You better go dump that garbage,” Julian said to me, as he began loading dishes into the Roundhouse dishwasher.

“What garbage?” Meg asked, puzzled. “Won’t the bears get it if you dump spoiled food at night—”

I didn’t stay to hear the rest, because I couldn’t go through the same story twice in one day.

I lugged the bag over to the sidewalk. Inside the Roundhouse, I could make out Meg and Marla, alternating telling Julian stories about how things used to be in Aspen Meadow, how we used to have Aspen Meadow Taxi, one guy with one old car that used to be a hearse, how we used to have a bona fide art-film theater, and it was a regular theater, not a multiplex…

I stared at the Ellises’ trash and thought about my earlier assessment of going through it being a long shot. What was I looking for? Communications from Utah about Uriah’s illicit past? Evidence of stolen paintings or legal skullduggery? A copy of Charlie’s altered will, unsigned, that Donald might have tossed away? Or maybe a receipt for an opal-and-diamond bracelet…

I really wasn’t convinced I wanted to go through somebody’s sure-to-be-spoiled trash. But I tore open the sack anyway…and was rewarded with a stinking spill of coffee grounds.

Okay, I thought as I removed wads of wet, crumpled-up paper. I had resolved to look for some of Bishop Uriah’s correspondence, or notes, or something. Or maybe I was looking for something else. I just didn’t know what.

Had Nora known that somebody was selling her a stolen painting? I wondered as I began to smooth out the first wad of papers. Had she suspected? Maybe there was a bill of sale in here? And why did the Ellises have to crumple all their paper trash into teensy-weensy balls that were impossible to open? I’d have to go back and check my psych books, see if that was a sign of anal—Wait a minute.

I was looking at a very wrinkled piece of yellow legal-pad paper that had been completely covered with what looked like shading, done with the side of a pencil tip, not with the point. Whoever had done the shading had revealed writing on a note that had been done on top of it. Well, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t know people did this anymore. Kids, yes. Grown-ups, no.

I was tired. My body hurt and I knew I didn’t smell very good. But now I was consumed with curiosity. Meg, Marla, and Julian were still merrily conversing inside the Roundhouse as they clattered clean dishes back into the cupboards. Meg was doing most of the talking, it seemed to me, but that was okay. Marla isn’t a particularly good listener unless she’s really concentrating, but maybe that was precisely what she was doing. Julian, on the other hand, is a very good listener and can make anyone feel treasured.

I needed better light. I eased under one of the outside security lamps I’d had installed, and suddenly the writing was as clear as if it had been written in white ink.

I swallowed, and all my senses were suddenly alert. The date was October 18, the day before Dusty had been killed.

Michael,You know I’m a generalist and don’t really handle this kind of thing. I need to talk to you in a professional capacity and don’t want to risk e-mail or telephone. I am seeking a divorce—

But that was as far as I got in Donald Ellis’s note to divorce attorney Michael Radford. Because suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I gasped. There was a thin rope around my neck, and it was pulled tight. I tried to cough but couldn’t. I simply could not bring any air at all into my lungs. Black spots appeared before my eyes.

“Our trash goes out on Monday,” Nora Ellis whispered in my ear. “Imagine my surprise when we hardly had any, especially since we’d just had a party over the weekend. Now walk.”

No, I was not going to walk. I thrust my hands back, trying to get some purchase on her. I clawed, shoved backward, and tried to slam her with my head. Then I fell to my knees, refusing to budge.

But I had underestimated Nora and her strong, squash-playing body. She yanked on the rope and deftly moved in front of me, pulling my body away from the Roundhouse with its security lights…and into the shadows. I coughed and choked and tried to get my fingers under the rope, to no avail. Instead, Nora was tugging me into the darkness, toward the lake. The lake, that was already beginning to freeze. If I wasn’t dead by the time I got there, she could push me in and I’d die of hypothermia.

I couldn’t get my legs to move. I was stumbling forward, unable to see, unable to breathe, across the uneven ground between us and the lake.

You know I’m a generalist.

You know, I think she loved Mr. Ogden.

You know…

How was she keeping that rope so tight? I wondered even as I felt my consciousness bleeding away. She must have had some kind of knot on it. She was holding the rope with both hands and pulling hard. Was there any way I could get her to lighten up on her grip? My mind groped for answers, but my ability to think was fading, fading…

Julian had said, She thought Mr. Ogden would leave his wife, but he didn’t…

Dusty had written in her journal, “I’m afraid this is another Mr. O.”

Wait, I thought when we reached where the ground sloped down toward the lake. If I push mightily toward one side, that could create slack in the rope. Then I could try to slip away, call for help…

I stopped stumbling and leaped sideways. The rope went slack for a nanosecond. I managed to take a gasping breath, that was all, not make a cry for someone, anyone, to come to my aid…

You know I think she loved Mr. Ogden…

“Goldy?” a faraway voice called. Was it my mother, calling to me, beckoning me to the grave? “Goldy?”

And then there was a sudden loosening of the rope, and a thud. Nora cried out and broke away from me. There was another thwacking noise, and Nora shrieked and ran toward the lake. Hacking and coughing as my lungs remembered how to work, I looked in the direction of the Roundhouse. I saw a bird, a ball, a rock, what was it? And why was it sailing toward me?

Actually, it was headed for Nora, who was almost to the path that circled the lake. But the third toss of a baseball-size rock from star senior-softball pitcher Meg Blatchford landed just where the first two had been aimed: on the head of Nora Ellis. She collapsed to the ground and didn’t move.

Julian called the police.

CHAPTER 19

Why did she do it? For one of the oldest reasons: jealousy. And Nora Ellis wasn’t just envious of Dusty, although she certainly was that. She despised what Dusty could do to her, to Nora.

Dusty had been fifteen years younger than Donald; she’d been wonderfully pretty and optimistic; she’d hero-worshiped him, even though he was an associate with no money of his own. Still, Dusty had adored Donald, and he, in turn, reveled in her infatuation. Donald wanted to change his whole life, to have more of Dusty’s love. And Nora couldn’t stand for that.

Because Nora had also been jealous of her place in the community. She didn’t want to divorce Donald because she wanted to be married to him, to be an attorney’s wife, even one for whom she’d have to bring business, to ensure he made partner. And of course, there was that twenty million. She had loved Donald so much, she had insisted her inheritance be made marital property. Later, Nora told the police what I already knew: that she’d made it jointly theirs to show Donald how much she loved him. The downside to that was if Donald divorced her, which he certainly was prepared to do, he’d be taking half of that dough with him.

Which, in Nora’s mind, was all the more reason to be rid of Dusty.

But why did she have to run down defenseless Althea Mannheim? I kept wondering. Nora has now hired a criminal defense attorney, who has told her to keep her mouth shut, so I don’t know the answer. But I can imagine. Because Uriah Sutherland had seen Althea at Charlie Baker’s last show at the gallery. Uriah had watched Althea talk with a suddenly anxious Charlie Baker. And he’d been able to guess that the conversation involved Uriah’s stealing Althea’s family’s paten and chalice.

Now Uriah has told the police that of course he informed Nora of why Althea was at the gallery. Uriah said he’d guessed why Althea was so urgently talking to Charlie. In fact, Uriah had told Nora all this right there at the reception. He didn’t know Nora was going to run Althea over, he told the police, how could he?

So: at that same reception, when Uriah told Nora what Charlie Baker was just now learning, Nora saw Althea Mannheim as potentially spoiling her life. Because if Althea had succeeded in telling Charlie Baker about Uriah’s stealing, then she might tell the world. Then forget the Mountain Pastoral Center: nobody would hire Uriah. Nora would be taking care of her insufferable, thieving father for the rest of her days. The way she saw it, she had to get rid of Althea.

And she had to get rid of Charlie Baker, too. Because once Charlie Baker learned the truth about Uriah, he would inevitably change his will, which was precisely what he had tried to do. And if he changed his will, everyone would learn why he’d changed his will. Once again, Nora would be stuck with Uriah and be socially embarrassed in the community. So she paid Charlie Baker a visit. Everyone in town knew Nora had scads of money. Had she pretended to be interested in buying a couple of his paintings, to get him up to his studio? It would have been easy to push the frail, cancer-ridden Charlie down the stairs, a fall that would be sure to kill him.

Two other people had known that Charlie Baker was changing his will: Dusty Routt and Richard Chenault. Richard did admit to the police that Charlie had a new will drawn up that he’d never had the chance to sign and validate. He said he hadn’t tied Charlie’s desire for a new will to his death the next night. It had been none of his business, he told the cops. What he didn’t tell law enforcement was that Charlie’s sudden death gave Richard the idea to lift some of the paintings in Charlie’s house and create a fraudulent inventory to cover his theft.

For that is what he did. The dual inventories that Dusty kept, plus her journal, helped to prove that. “I am going to FIND OUT,” she’d written. And where had Richard hidden the paintings? Why, in Donald Ellis’s mess of an office, that’s where. People who work on oil and gas leases have to have those large, long, map-size drawers, the same ones Dusty had complained about in her journal.

Imagine Donald’s surprise, the morning after his wife was arrested, when he opened a drawer to check a map of the Wyoming gas fields Dusty had grumbled about not being able to find. Instead, almost three dozen unfinished paintings of Wedding Cake, Sponge Cake, and Cherry Coffeecake all spilled out. Unlike Louise Upton, when Donald Ellis discovered stolen goods, he reported them to the police. And right away, too. He didn’t even touch the paintings, he just left them on top of the mountain range of paper already decorating his floor.

Investigators took fingerprints from the paintings, and some matched those of Richard Chenault. With that evidence plus the dual inventories, the cops had plenty of evidence to arrest Richard Chenault for felony theft. He’d also sold stolen property: Nora Ellis was only too happy to finger Richard for stiffing her for forty thou, which was what he’d charged her for the unfinished Charlie Baker painting of Journey Cake. Betraying a client’s trust, felony theft from an estate, and selling stolen property: very dark torts, indeed.

But why had Richard stolen from dear, deceased Charlie Baker? Well, Richard was jealous, too. Jealous of all the things—cars, houses, vacations, women—his associate Donald had been able to have. Donald even had a wealthy, stay-at-home wife, which Richard had not had. No, Richard had been married to K.D., a successful professional woman who couldn’t abide his infidelity. I treasured K.D., whose care for a dying woman had led to the exposure of Uriah’s thievery and the motive behind the killing of Charlie Baker.

I’d always suspected the cops didn’t have their man, or woman, as the case was, when they arrested Louise Upton. As it turned out, Dusty had been wearing the bracelet the night she died. It had been an early birthday present, Donald Ellis told the cops later, because opals were the birthstone for October. Donald had given Dusty the bracelet because he really did want to marry her, and he’d wanted her to know the level of his commitment. Maybe the bracelet, Donald’s divorce, and their desire to marry had been what Dusty had wanted to tell me that last, fateful night. But never mind all that, the cops said, because the important thing was that Nora had ripped the bracelet off Dusty’s wrist, once she was dead.

I felt sorry for Wink Calhoun, because after Nora was apprehended, Wink’s conscience went into overtime. In one of their oh-so-friendly squash games, Nora had asked Wink if anyone in the firm was in dire financial straits. Wink had confided that Louise Upton needed money, and how. This was the data Nora had been seeking. Unfortunately, Wink then had taken the enormous guilt leap that this knowledge had helped Nora conceive her plan to kill Dusty, and blame Louise in her place. But I told Wink no. No: it had been Donald’s desire to get out of his marriage that had made Nora kill Wink’s dear friend.

So: Nora had been aware that Louise Upton was strapped for money. This was why Nora had hired Louise to “help” with the party at her house. Once Louise was inside the house, Nora had easily dropped the opal-and-diamond bracelet through a slightly open window into Louise’s car. Louise, thinking a wealthy guest had lost the obviously valuable piece of jewelry, had tried to pawn the thing that very day. Also, when Nora was supposedly out running a few errands, and Louise was safe at the Ellises’ house setting up for the party, Nora had zipped over to Louise’s townhouse complex and left the sledgehammer she’d used on Dusty’s Civic in Louise’s Dumpster.

But Louise wouldn’t, couldn’t, have killed Dusty. She might have been envious of the young, perky paralegal-to-be, but she was too protective of H&J to have its image sullied with a murder. Meanwhile, she’s planning on suing the cops for false arrest.

Perhaps most inscrutable in all this was Donald Ellis. Who was he? He’d had affairs with both Wink and then Dusty, young women who had adored him. And maybe that was what he had been jealous for: adoration. Dusty had had no material goods, and had worshiped Donald because he represented what she was passionate about: the law, or maybe just being attached to a rich lawyer. He loved her, he said. That’s why they’d made love every lunch hour, with him hidden inside Dusty’s car as she drove it into Charlie Baker’s garage.

I wondered. Dusty, judging from her journal, had only wanted to learn about the law, and to be in love. Donald, on the other hand, had wanted a new wife. And his note to his neighbor, divorce lawyer Michael Radford, had sealed Dusty’s fate. Nora Ellis had known about Dusty the way she had known about Wink; she’d just looked the other way. But then she’d sketched over a pad to find a note Donald had written to a premier divorce attorney. Facing a divorce and losing half of her inheritance—well, Nora just couldn’t have that.

And now, ironically, Donald was getting just what he wanted. First, freedom from Richard and his envy and criticism. And he was getting, finally, freedom from Nora, whom he was divorcing, against whom he was testifying, and whose money he now had to spend. But he wasn’t getting just what he wanted. He hadn’t gotten Dusty.

The cops never did find Jason Gurdley, the fellow who tried to mow down Vic. Vic is doing better now, and we have him over to dinner sometimes. At least, he’s doing a lot better than when he almost was killed holding Dusty’s computer. In any event, I was certain that Nora had hired Gurdley to watch the Routts’ and later our house. When Vic came out of the Routts’ house with a computer, Gurdley had decided to play it better safe than sorry, and attempted to destroy the computer.

Gurdley also could have tried to sideswipe K.D.’s car, since Nora might have worried that K.D. knew something about Uriah, based on her reaction to meeting him at the birthday party. K.D. returned from her hideout in Santa Fe, shocked to learn that what she’d suspected about the bishop had turned out to be true—and that her own husband was also a thief. On the bright side, she no longer has to fight with Richard over the divorce, and seems ready finally to get on with her life. She moved out of the house in Flicker Ridge and into a gorgeous townhouse right near Southwest Hospital.

As for Nora Ellis…she was indeed that very wealthy lady who’d wanted, as Julian had characterized her, “the best-quality stuff, but only at a steep discount.” Facing grand larceny charges, Richard Chenault is now working on a plea bargain that begins with him sharing information. The first thing he told Detective Britt was that Nora Ellis had wanted to buy a Charlie Baker painting for Donald’s birthday present. Nora had asked Richard if he could “help her out,” as she put it. Since Richard had stolen a number of Charlie’s paintings, he’d sold Nora the one for Journey Cake at a huge discount. Nora, gleeful, hadn’t questioned the price, nor had she questioned the recipe, which had been one of the ways that this whole puzzle concerning Dusty’s murder had unraveled.

Well. As things stand now, Nora Ellis is going to be tried for three murders: those of Althea Mannheim, Charlie Baker, and Dusty Routt. In Colorado, she faces the death penalty.

The funeral for Dusty Routt was a somber, stunning affair, with Father Pete presiding. Several of Dusty’s former classmates at both Elk Park Prep and the Mile-High Paralegal Institute gave testimonials describing their fun-loving, hardworking friend. Sally was able to pull herself out of her funk to attend; Marla had bought her a new black dress to wear, and arranged for a hairdresser to visit the Routt home prior to the service. The church was filled to overflowing, and Sally, who’d felt stigmatized for so long as a “welfare person,” appeared both gratified and overwhelmed. Julian and I provided the post-liturgy refreshments, and as is often the case with these things, the food seemed to set the mourners off on a renewed path to life.

Meg Blatchford came, and spoke movingly about what Dusty had provided for all of us: a view of zest, ambition, kindness. We all thanked her afterward. I also told her that she was my new hero, since she’d saved me from being strangled by Nora Ellis. Meg said, “Aw, it was nothing.” I said, “Yeah, right, Sandy Koufax,” which was a compliment with a historical context she could appreciate. She beamed, and invited our whole family to visit her at her Scottsdale home. She’s already packed up her place in Aspen Meadow and headed to Arizona with Grace Mannheim. After all, the winter season for senior softball is about to get under way.

Julian is doing well. After Dusty’s funeral, he went back to Boulder, where he’s begun working again at the bistro. I talked to him yesterday. He said, “Life is so much less eventful here than it is in Aspen Meadow. I may have to come over to that nice, quiet mountain town, just so I can inject some excitement into my life.”

To which Tom said, “Nice and quiet we’re not. But come anyway.”

Tom is better than ever. He’s back down at the department, working a big forgery case. When I asked him to tell me about it, he refused.

I’m not working at H&J anymore. For my part, I’m a little jealous, too: but only for peace and quiet. We’ll see if I actually get it. But in the meantime, our extended family has grown to include Sally, John, and Colin Routt at big biweekly dinners. Tonight Gus is spending the night with Arch, and the two of them have vowed to teach Colin how to throw a Frisbee. For dessert, we’re having the carrot cake that was meant to be Dusty’s birthday cake, and will toast her memory. Tom, bless his heart, had thought to wrap it up and freeze it. My dear husband is also making us gnocchi in veal sauce.

I can’t wait.

Recipes in Dark Tort

1. Dark Torte

2. Chicky Bread

3. Prosciutto Bites

4. Tom’s Savory Sausage Casserole

5. Asparagus Quiche

6. Chicken Piccata Supreme

7. All-American Deep-Dish Apple Pie

8. Strong-Arm Cookies

9. Chocolate Lovers’ Dipped Fruits

10. Blue Cheesecake

11. Journey Cake with Hard Sauce

Dark Torte

6 large eggs, separated1 cup granulated sugar, divided1½ cups ground zwieback crumbs (1 six-ounce box)1 teaspoon baking powder½ teaspoon ground cinnamon½ teaspoon ground cloves(high altitude: 1 tablespoon cake flour)¹/₈ teaspoon salt¹/₈ teaspoon cream of tartar1 cup finely chopped pecansSherry Syrup (recipe below)Whipped Cream Topping (recipe below)

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter two 9-inch cake pans. Butter two cooling racks.In a large bowl, beat the egg yolks until they are light and lemon-colored. Remove 2 tablespoons of sugar from the cup of sugar and set aside. Gradually beat the rest of the sugar (1 cup minus 2 tablespoons) into the egg yolks. In another large bowl, combine the crumbs, baking powder, cinnamon, and cloves (and flour if cooking at high altitude), stirring to combine well. Stir this mixture into the egg-yolk mixture (batter will be very stiff). Set aside.In a large bowl, using a wire whip or whip attachment, beat the egg whites until they are foamy. Add the salt and cream of tartar, and continue beating until stiff. Gradually beat in the remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar.Fold ¹/₃ of the egg-white mixture into the egg-yolk mixture. Fold in half of the nuts. Fold in another ¹/₃ of the egg-white mixture; then fold in the last of the nuts. Fold in the final ¹/₃ of the egg-white mixture until there are no traces of white in the batter. Spread the batter evenly into the prepared pans.Bake in the center of the oven for 15 to 25 minutes, until the layers have browned slightly, toothpicks inserted in the center come out clean, and the layers have begun to shrink from the sides of the pans.Cool the layers for 5 minutes in their pans. Place a large piece of aluminum foil underneath the buttered racks and fold it up all the way around so as to catch the syrup. Turn the layers out onto the separate buttered cake racks. Allow the layers to cool while you make the Sherry Syrup.Using a skewer or ice pick, evenly poke holes all over the tops of the layers. (Take care not to poke the holes all the way through the cake. The holes should go down about ¾ of the way through the layers.) Carefully and slowly pour the hot Sherry Syrup evenly over the layers, until it is all gone.When the layers are cool, make the Whipped Cream Topping. Discard the foil and carefully turn the first layer onto a cake plate. Spread a thick layer of Whipped Cream Topping over this layer. Then top with the second layer. Spread the rest of the topping on the top and sides of the torte.The torte may be served immediately or it may be chilled. Leftovers must be kept in the refrigerator.

MAKES 12 SERVINGS

Sherry Syrup

2 cups granulated sugar2 cups spring water½ cup dry sherry

Combine the sugar and water in a wide, heavy-bottomed sauté pan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, and allow the mixture to boil until it reaches the soft-ball stage (234° to 240°F). (Use a candy thermometer to ensure the proper stage has been reached.)Remove the pan from the heat. Using a wooden spoon, carefully and slowly swirl in the sherry. When the mixture is well combined, pour over the torte layers.

Whipped Cream Topping

1 tablespoon springwater1 teaspoon vanilla extract1 teaspoon unflavored gelatin powder2 cups (1 pint) heavy whipping cream, well chilled2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar

Pour the water and vanilla into a small saucepan. Sprinkle the gelatin powder over the surface of the liquid, and allow the gelatin to soften for 2 minutes. Turn the heat on under the pan to medium low. Swirling the mixture frequently, cook the mixture until the gelatin is completely dissolved. Keep the heat on very low to maintain the liquid gelatin mixture.Pour the cream into a large mixer bowl. Using a wire whip or a whip attachment, beat the cream until it forms soft peaks. Beat in the sugar and whip until stiff peaks form.With the beater running, pour the liquid gelatin mixture into the cream until completely combined. Turn off the beater, scrape the blades, and immediately spread the whipped cream topping between the layers and on top of the torte.

Chicky Bread

1²/₃ cups chickpeas (garbanzo beans) (contents of one 15-ounce can)½ cup plus 1 tablespoon molasses, divided¼ cup lukewarm springwater1 tablespoon active dry yeast1 tablespoon bread-dough enhancer (recommended brand: Lora Brody’s, available at Williams-Sonoma)2 cups bread flour, or all-purpose flour1 cup whole wheat flour2 teaspoons salt¹/₃ cup rolled oats²/₃ cup springwater¼ cup nonfat dry milk¼ cup safflower oil1 large egg, beaten

Drain the chickpeas, rinse them, and pat them dry. Pour them into a blender along with ½ cup of the molasses. Blend until the mixture is smooth (no chickpeas visible). Measure out 1 cup of this mixture; discard remainder.Mix 1 tablespoon molasses into the ¼ cup lukewarm springwater and sprinkle the yeast on top. Let this sit for 3 to 5 minutes, until the yeast is completely moistened. Stir the yeast into the water and place in a warm spot for 10 minutes, allowing the yeast to proof.Mix the bread-dough enhancer into the bread (or all-purpose) flour and whole wheat flour. Place these ingredients into a bread machine, followed by the salt, oats, ²/₃ cup springwater, nonfat dry milk, safflower oil, and egg. Pour the yeast in on top. Program for white bread (approximately 3 hours and 10 minutes) and press start.After the first few minutes of mixing, lift the lid of the machine and check that the dough is neither too sticky and wet nor so dry that it cannot incorporate all the ingredients. If the mixture looks too wet, add up to 2 more tablespoons of bread flour. If the mixture looks dry, add up to 2 tablespoons of springwater. Use a large spatula, if necessary, to gently coax all the ingredients together as the blade continues to mix the ingredients. (Do not touch the blade.) What you are aiming for here is a smooth, supple dough that holds together and that the blade of the machine can knead easily. Once a smooth, supple dough is obtained, close the lid of the bread machine and let the bread-making process continue.Once the bread is done, remove it from the machine and allow it to cool on a rack before slicing.

MAKES ONE LARGE LOAF

Prosciutto Bites

4 medium-size butter croissants (see note)¾ cup best-quality plum preserves, strained, with plums reserved6 slices prosciutto½ cup goat cheese (or cream cheese)

Preheat the oven to 375°F.Carefully slice the croissants lengthwise. Place the 8 croissant halves on an ungreased cookie sheet.Spread each croissant half with 4 teaspoons of the strained preserves, spreading just to the edge.Slice the reserved plums into fourths. Evenly divide them between the croissant halves, placing the plum slices at regular intervals on top of the preserves.Trim the fat from the prosciutto slices. Place the prosciutto slices over the preserves and plums. Trim any overhang and place on top of the preserves. (Each croissant half will need about ¾ slice of prosciutto.)Chop and crumble the goat cheese (or cream cheese) into ½ teaspoon portions. Evenly dot the prosciutto with the cheese.Bake for about 10 minutes, or until the cheese is just beginning to brown. Remove from the oven and allow to cool for at least 5 minutes. Using tongs, carefully place each croissant half onto a cutting board. Using a sharp serrated knife, cut each croissant half into four “bites.” (Alternatively, you may serve each croissant half as an appetizer, or two croissant halves for breakfast or a light lunch.)

MAKES 32 SMALL SERVINGS (“BITES”)

Note: Croissants now come in three sizes: large, medium, and small, or “cocktail.” This recipe is tailored for the medium-size croissants. However, if you can only get large or cocktail-size croissants, merely adjust the proportions as necessary, making sure that the preserves are thinly spread to the edge of each croissant half, that the preserve layer is completely covered with a single thin layer of prosciutto, and that each prosciutto layer is well dotted with cheese.