Double Shot

Courtney was wearing a skimpy white tennis dress that showed off her muscled arms and long legs. But she also had those strong arms raised, and each of her hands clutched her signature pink tennis balls. She did not look happy.

“You bitch!” she screamed at me. “You wrecked my life!” Before she could go on, she caught a glimpse of Boyd and clamped her mouth shut.

I gunned the engine to get up onto the club’s main road. As we whizzed past Courtney, she gave me a hostile stare. I pressed the accelerator to go even faster. “That woman is a piece of work,” Boyd commented, his voice amused.

Boyd reminded me not to speed, so I carefully slowed the van to make the turnoff to the lake. I needed to check on the tent setup, use my new keys to get through the Roundhouse’s reinforced kitchen door, and generally make sure that everything was proceeding well for the next event. I certainly hoped Courtney MacEwan had not been invited to Nan Watkins’s picnic.

After the mess at the club, the Roundhouse was a positively serene spot. The tent was up. Boyd gently took my new keys, opened the Roundhouse, and thoroughly checked the premises. He declared them clear.

We had just begun to haul out the boxes for the picnic event when my eyes caught on a sheriff’s-department tow truck on the far side of the lake. It was the exact spot where I’d seen Trudy’s son, Eddie, fishing with his pals earlier in the day. My heart turned over.

I remembered when Arch was nine and had come to the lake to fish by himself, because John Richard would never take him. I hadn’t found him for hours and was sure he had drowned. I shook my head and walked even faster up the path to the kitchen door.

“Mr…. Sergeant…” I couldn’t get the words out.

“What is it, Goldy?” Boyd asked calmly. He stopped unloading his box and came over to me. “Talk slowly.” He nodded encouragingly. “Tell me.”

“Lake,” I said. “Here. Come!”

He accompanied me outside, and I pointed to the truck, which was now flashing its lights and backing up to the bank. With the truck reversing, I could now see two sheriff’s-department vehicles and a state trooper’s gray sedan near it.

“Oh, God!” I wailed.

“Goldy,” Boyd said calmly. “Tell me what you think it is.”

“Eddie!” I gasped. “Eddie from next door. Please. Call and find out.”

Boyd told me to stay where I was, then unhooked his radio and walked ten paces away from me. His radio crackled as he talked into it.

I thought I was going to be ill. I was suddenly excruciatingly worried about Arch. About Eddie. About everything. I told Boyd I was going over to where the sheriff’s-department cars were parked and see if Eddie was okay. Boyd relocked the Roundhouse and hustled along behind me. I pressed the buttons for Tom’s cell phone and resumed trotting toward the far side of the lake.

Tom, happy to hear from me, said Arch had had one shaky period on the way to the giant pool. Tom had taken an exit off the interstate and found a church where he knew the pastor. The pastor had listened to and comforted Arch while Todd and Julian had waited patiently. The three boys had spent the morning riding man-made tsunamis in the wave pool. After that, they’d had banana splits, and then it had begun to rain, hard. Denver’s weather could be entirely different from ours, no question. Anyway, Arch and Todd had decided to go back to the Druckmans’, and Julian was on his way to the Roundhouse. I asked Tom if Arch had mentioned the non-golf lessons with John Richard.

“That’s a negative, Miss G. My guess is that his guilt will catch up with him, and he’ll offer the info to you. He…had a bit of a paranoia attack, too. He thought we were being followed. He said he thought somebody had followed him to the rink in Lakewood on Tuesday, too.”

“Who could have been following him?” I glanced back at Boyd, who was talking into his radio.

“I don’t know, but I made damn sure I watched for somebody once we got back on the interstate. There wasn’t anyone.”

“Tom, have you heard about a drowning at Aspen Meadow Lake?” I blurted out.

“No, I haven’t. You want me to call in and find out? Is that where you are?”

“Yeah. Boyd’s on the radio. I’m walking toward the recovery operation. Eddie from next door was going fishing today, and I’m so scared I’m sick.”

“I understand. Boyd still checking?” Tom asked.

I glanced back and said he was. Talking, talking, talking. What was going on?

Tom said, “Tell me about your breakfast.” I told him that Courtney MacEwan might be up to something with Roger Mannis. Tom chuckled. “Girls will be girls.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Boyd clicked off his radio and called for me to slow down. Meanwhile, two cops were lowering the truck’s winch into the lake.

“I’ll call you back, Tom.”

“I’m on my way over there right now.”

“Thanks.”

“Eddie’s okay,” Boyd reassured me. “So are his friends.” Relief washed over me. “They did find something over there, though.”

The winch beeped and cranked. It was hauling a heavy load out of the water.

“It’s a woman,” Boyd told me grimly.

We were less than twenty yards from the sheriff’s-department cars. A state patrolman signaled us to stay put. Meanwhile, the tow-truck engine growled as its tires bit into the dirt.

At the end of the winch, a car’s grill glittered in the sunlight. I blinked in surprise. I knew that old station wagon. Water gushed out of the sides as more of it surfaced.

And then I saw her, her face pressed to the window. Even in death, I knew those thick glasses, that shovel-shaped face.

It was Cecelia Brisbane.

16

Sirens wailed in the distance. On the far side of the tow truck, a small crowd had gathered behind orange cones I’d missed seeing before. The cops needed more cars, of course. The town gossip columnist would generate more gossip in death than she had in life.

Not long after more sheriff’s-department cars had pulled alongside the tow truck, Tom’s sedan swung onto the lakeside road. A more welcome sight, I could not imagine. I had checked that the tables were being set up inside the tent. But someone still needed to pick up the pork chops from our house. No matter what, I really, really wanted to see Tom.

As Boyd and I walked back to the Roundhouse, he asked me if I wanted him to stick around.

“Tom will want to guard you,” Boyd said with a grin. “You don’t need two cops to do that. Well, maybe you do.”

“You’ve been great. Please let me pay you for this morning’s work.”

“Forget it. That was pure entertainment.” He promised he’d wait for Julian and give him the keys to the Roundhouse. Tom saluted Boyd, who only smiled.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I asked Tom once he was sitting beside me in my van. “Did anyone know Cecelia was missing? How did she end up inside her car at the bottom of the lake?”

“Take it easy, Goldy. I only know what I’ve heard since I talked to you.”

As he recited the facts, a sense of unreality crept over me. I had just seen Cecelia at the bake sale. Then I’d received a piece of mail from her. And now she was dead. I found this literally and figuratively hard to swallow.

About all law enforcement knew, Tom told me, was that Cecelia had been reported missing by her neighbor yesterday. Since Walter had committed suicide, this neighbor had vowed to check on Cecelia every single day, so she’d been sure, she told the sheriff’s department, that something was wrong.

What did I know about Cecelia’s history? Tom asked. Not much, I conceded, except that everyone in town feared being skewered in one of her columns. Of course, she’d hired me to do those posthumous birthday parties every year. And she seemed to pine for her daughter to come home, although she never said anything concrete to me.

Cecelia’s neighbor, Tom said, was an elderly woman named Sherry Boone. Cecelia always told Sherry when she was going somewhere, as Sherry fed Cecelia’s guinea pigs in her absence. When Cecelia hadn’t answered her phone, Sherry had called the Mountain Journal, frantic. Not only was Cecelia not there, she hadn’t phoned the paper that morning, as she usually did, to tell them when she’d be bringing in this week’s column. Sherry Boone had finally convinced the sheriff’s department to send a patrol car out to the Brisbanes’ creek-side residence.

Nobody had been home. Cecelia’s car was gone. In front of the deputies, Sherry retrieved Cecelia’s spare key and went into the house. There was no sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle, no note—only three hungry guinea pigs, which Sherry Boone immediately took into custody.

“Didn’t anyone think Cecelia might have been so depressed she’d commit suicide?” I wondered aloud.

“Nobody knew her better than her own neighbor. And Mrs. Boone insisted Cecelia had been in a good mood on Tuesday afternoon.” Tom’s face was grim as he opened the passenger door to my van. “And then our guys got this call from Aspen Meadow Lake…” He got out of the van. “Anyway, they’ll know more when they hear from the M.E.”

I followed Tom’s sedan home. When he saw I was shivering, he insisted I have a hot shower. He announced that he was going to do the final prep for Nan Watkins’s picnic. When I protested, he reminded me that I always seemed to want to do an investigator’s job, so wasn’t it hypocritical to stop an investigator from doing my job? I smiled. Was he getting his old sense of humor back? Was the depression over that lost case finally lifting?

When I reentered the kitchen, showered and dressed in a clean caterer’s outfit, the scent of warm rolls filled the air. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. It was just past noon; Julian was probably already at the tent, and Liz would be meeting us there at half-past one. There was a lot going on. Too much. In spite of the shower and Tom’s help, I swayed on my feet.

“Sit down, wife,” Tom ordered. “You haven’t seen half of the stuff I got on my grocery-buying binge.” He bustled me into a chair, then turned his attention back to his work. A copious white apron hugged his waist. He rinsed the brine from the chops, dried them, and set them aside. With studied purposefulness, he then washed his hands and proceeded to peel and halve an avocado. He filled both halves with chunks of cooked lobster. After drenching the whole thing with his homemade rémoulade sauce, he put two warm rolls next to his concoction, placed a fork, knife, and napkin on the table, and commanded me to eat.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. Luxuriant lobster and creamy avocado robed in Tom’s signature dressing made a perfect complement for the hot brioche rolls. For a few moments, I was able to forget that I had an event to cater that afternoon. Not only that, but it was the type of affair dreaded by all caterers—the outdoor picnic buffet. Why not just name the occasion Calling All Ants?

Tom stared into the refrigerator and read what I’d scribbled on the storage containers. “Pasta salad and these pies, plus greens for two salads?”

“Mmf,” I said, my mouth full of avocado.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Tom removed pans, bowls, and bags of ingredients, then set them on the counter and winked at me. “You don’t mind if I pack the van, do you, Lobster Girl?”

“Mm—mmf.”

He took that as a yes, too. Within half an hour, he had loaded everything, I had rinsed my plate, and we were almost ready to rock. While I printed out the sheets detailing the picnic prep schedule, Tom called Boyd, who was back at the department. On a whim, I ran up and grabbed Holly Kerr’s old photo album, the one containing pictures of Arch as a baby. When I returned, Tom said Boyd didn’t know any more about Cecelia yet. But the Denver firearms examiner’s report on my gun and the test for the bullets taken from John Richard was expected in a couple of hours. My heart plunged.

Tom thanked him and said that if the department needed him, he’d be with me. He’d drive his own sedan instead of accompanying me in the van, in case there was an emergency and he had to leave in a hurry.

“Which is unlikely,” Tom commented when he’d hung up and we were heading to our vehicles. “The only departmental emergencies generated lately have you at the center of them. So I figure if I stick with my wife, I’ll have a jump on everybody.”

I shoved the photo album into the van and gave him a sour look. “Thanks a lot. You know how much I love being at the center of departmental emergencies.” But he grinned widely, and again the jovial wisecracker I’d married seemed to be peeking out from the funk of the previous month.

Outside, the sunshine had completely dried all remnants of the hail. Spring—or the vestige of that season we see in the Rockies—had finally sprung. Our Alpine rosebushes’ tight buds had opened into a cloud of creamy blossoms. Blue-button flax wavered on tall, sea-green stalks, and a profusion of chartreuse aspen leaves shone beside the jade green of new spruce growth. When a sudden breeze swished through the roses, a spill of petals floated downward, freckling the ground.

The ground, I thought miserably as Tom’s sedan crunched through the gravel ravines made by the hail. The ground into which Cecelia Brisbane would soon be interred. And John Richard, too. I took a deep breath and made my way toward the van.

Driving up Main Street, I gripped the steering wheel so hard my hands became damp. With Tom, back at our house, I’d felt calm. Now my nerves were unraveling. I tried to distract myself by checking out the chattering tourists clogging the sidewalks. They ate taffy and popcorn, showed off their new Navajo turquoise jewelry, and asked for directions to the saloon, the sweatshirt store, and the art gallery. They were all oblivious to this morning’s gruesome discovery. I stared ahead at Tom’s sedan as we crested the road circling the lake.

A soft wind ruffled the water. On the far bank, six sheriff’s-department cars were parked, lights flashing. Uniformed officers waved away the crowd of spectators as others combed the area where the tow truck had been.

My cell phone’s brat-brat brought me back to life.

“Goldy?”

I did not immediately recognize the female voice, and hesitated a moment.

“Goldy? It’s Holly Kerr.”

I was so out of it that it took me a minute to realize that Holly, my catering client from Tuesday’s lunch, was the same kind, wealthy woman I’d just visited yesterday and seen at that morning’s committee breakfast. I said, “Yes?”

“I don’t mean to bother you,” she apologized, “but I have something to show you. Photographs from Albert’s memorial luncheon. You said you were interested in seeing them.”

“Of course, yes, please.” I pulled the van into the Roundhouse parking lot. At the tent, Liz and Julian were directing volunteers setting up chairs. I couldn’t see where Tom had gone.

“One of the guests took a whole roll,” Holly went on, “then had the pictures developed overnight. I can bring them to the picnic, if you want.”

“Oh please, yes. If you could come twenty minutes or so before the picnic begins…” I didn’t finish my sentence. Where had Tom gotten to?

Holly murmured something about wanting to help and signed off. So now I was going to get some photos from Tuesday’s lunch, and they might answer some questions, such as, who had sabotaged my food and attacked me that morning. Or if Bobby Calhoun, dressed as Elvis or as himself, had been present.

I finally saw Tom striding, head down, to the edge of the Roundhouse property. He put his hands in his pockets and gazed at the cops combing the scene where Cecelia’s car had been recovered. I suddenly realized I had more to worry about than some pictures.

Tom’s case that had been thrown out of court had been a drowning. Someone had intentionally, brutally held a young woman under water until she stopped struggling. Was Tom staring at the investigation on the far side of the lake and getting that distant look in his eyes—a look I’d seen far too much of lately—because he was reliving that final, astonishing day in court, when a witness had changed his testimony?

I wanted so much to take care of Tom, to reciprocate the affection and support that he’d lavished on Arch and me from the moment his big body and bigger spirit had swaggered into our lives. But would I really be able to help him? So far, I had no clue.

I threw the van’s gear into Park and fought a wave of nausea. I did have a slew of my own problems. I didn’t know how much time I had to try to figure out who had attacked me or killed John Richard. If the firearms examiner’s report was due that afternoon, then the sheriff’s department was bound to have obtained the results of the gunshot-residue test. Something congealed in my abdomen as I wondered how much trouble I was going to get into for not reporting the theft of my gun. And what if the bullets the coroner took from John Richard had come from my thirty-eight? I rubbed my eyes.

Too many questions, and no good answers. If all of the firearms tests pointed to my firing my own weapon into John Richard, then charges would probably be filed against me that afternoon. Suddenly the future looked darker and murkier than Aspen Meadow Lake.

Tom rapped on my window and I jumped. I hadn’t even seen him come over.

“You all right?” he called through the glass.

“Fine,” I replied. Then I stared into his eyes, searching. How about you? I wanted to ask him. Are you all right?

I rubbed my cheeks to try to get my circulation going. Then I jumped from the van and resolutely put my mind into catering gear. Work, action, moving forward: All these were the antidote for stress, depression, and a host of other ills, right? Tom and I both needed to get cracking.

The Southwest Hospital Women’s Auxiliary and friends of Nurse Nan Watkins swarmed across the rutted parking lot and toward the bright white tent. They bore table linens, flower arrangements, baskets, bags, and boxes, all bulging with the flatware, china, glasses, and other odds and ends they’d insisted on providing. Two separate groups of volunteers were slowly hauling a pair of bulletin boards toward the speaker’s podium.

I tried not to think that this might be my retirement party, too.

Soon I was loading Tom’s outstretched arms with containers of pork chops. I balanced the containers of salad and followed him toward the Roundhouse kitchen. My eyes involuntarily wandered back to the sheriff’s-department cars. Would they be done before the picnic started? I certainly hoped so.

Tom stopped short, and I almost crashed into him.

“Tom.” I rebalanced my load and moved to his side. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He lifted his chin. “Over there.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s a possible crime scene. That’s why they’re taking their time.” Of course, as much as I wanted to know what was going on over there, I wanted to know even more what was going on over here, with him. Oblivious, Tom mused: “Problem is, between fishermen and the joggers, any evidence of what happened is probably either contaminated or gone.”

I shifted my grip on the pans. “Tom—”

His voice was deadpan, faraway. “Once they get the car down to the department, they’ll extract the corpse before sending it to the M.E. The rest will go to the crime lab.”

“Please—”

Tom shrugged, hoisted up his load, and resumed shuffling toward the kitchen. Without looking back, Tom said, “That’s their job.”

“Stop for a sec,” I said, my voice low.

He turned and gave me a look of annoyance. “Didn’t you tell me we had all kinds of work to do?”

Hearing our voices, Julian and Liz tumbled out of the kitchen. Julian, clad in a chic gray catering suit, wore a gray apron around his slim waist. A red neckerchief gave him the look of a real chef. Liz’s spill of silver jewelry sparkled in the sunlight as she hurried toward me, a look of motherly concern on her slender face. The cops had come over to tell them they were closing down the lake’s paddle-and sailboat rental, and cordoning off the lake path. Any curious picnickers from our event were to stay put. The cops had refused to tell Julian and Liz exactly what they were doing with their truck and personnel. Undaunted, Liz had called a friend of hers who lived by the lake and heard the whole story.

“Oh my God, Goldy,” she began, “that poor woman. First her husband kills himself, and now this.” She awkwardly tried to hug me around the pans I was carrying. The sharp smell of her cologne made me dizzy. Maybe I wasn’t doing as well as I thought I was.

“It’s gruesome,” I agreed, and gently pulled away from her.

“Let Liz and me do the picnic,” Julian offered. He scanned my face. “Go home, boss. You look exhausted. When Boyd gave me the keys, he told me the breakfast this morning was like a comedy made in hell. Tom,” he began, looking for support. But one glance at the vacant look in Tom’s eyes made him realize that my husband wasn’t bucking up as I’d hoped.

“We’re fine,” I told them. “Stop fretting, will you? Now help us get this food going, okay?”

And so our team forged ahead. Julian and Liz tucked chilled foods into the walk-in and searched the cabinets for serving dishes. Tom preheated the ovens and clattered pans onto the stovetop. I pulled out my printed sheets and scanned the prep schedule. The first order of business was checking on the setup inside the tent.

There, all was activity. Volunteers worked feverishly, festooning the bulletin boards that they’d finally managed to set up beside the podium. Foil letters screaming “Happy Retirement!” and “We’ll Miss You!” fluttered in the breeze. When I arrived beside the crookedly placed buffet tables, the auxiliary was pinning up photos and cards to commemorate Nan’s twenty-five years at Southwest Hospital.

I requisitioned a volunteer to help me straighten the tables, and was unfurling a tablecloth when Holly Kerr arrived—early, as promised. After the horrid PosteriTREE meeting, she must have gone home, showered—to wash off the residue of the women’s hostility—and changed her clothes. Now she was wearing a beige linen pantsuit accented with pearls, probably an outfit she’d worn often when Albert was a pastor and she was the dutiful pastor’s wife. Oh well, you can take the girl out of the church, but you can’t take the church out of the girl. Holly seemed as disappointed by all the women wearing jeans as she was sorry that I was too busy to visit with her just then. But the countdown to when we’d promised food service was fast approaching. I enthusiastically thanked her, slipped the envelope of photos from Tuesday’s lunch into my apron pocket, and promised to chat with her about them later.

When I’d finished overseeing the setup in the tent, Marla’s big Mercedes roared into the Roundhouse lot. I checked my watch, then slipped back inside and helped Liz unpack the strawberry pies. Within moments, Marla, who had changed into a spangled pantsuit, burst into the kitchen.

“Ooh, pie!” she cried. “Let’s do that eat-dessert-first thing. Where are the plates and forks?” She began clattering through the cupboards until she found a plate and a fork. “Where’s that damn pie server?” She looked at me expectantly, then lowered her voice. “I want to have a piece of pie while I tell you about the rumor I heard that Talitha Vikarios had an affair with Albert Kerr. I wish I had some idea of who this girl is—”

I said, “Some idea of…wait a minute.” While Liz sliced a piece of pie for Marla, I ran out to my van and nabbed Holly’s old album. When I returned, Marla was in the Roundhouse’s empty dining room merrily digging into her jumbo slice of pie. I sat down beside her and opened the album.

“Remember this young woman?” I demanded, pointing to the photo of Talitha Vikarios in her candy-striper uniform.

She put down her plate and fork and stared at the picture. “Oh, right. Her. Sweet girl, Talitha. I did hear she slept with Albert Kerr. Apparently Holly was desperate to break up the affair, and that’s why they left for England. I mean, we have seminaries here in the United States, don’t we? Why go to England?”

“Albert Kerr, huh?” I examined the picture again: the buoyant young candy striper, baby Arch, John Richard, tall, Abraham Lincolnesque Ted Vikarios, and bald, grinning Albert Kerr. “I can’t believe it.”

Marla finished her pie and put down her fork. “I told you it was a rumor.”

“From your vast knowledge of John Richard’s sexual conquests, do you know if Talitha might have been one of them?” I asked.

Marla said, “She’s not in the data bank.”

I snorted. “You and your data bank. Okay, now check these out with me.” I put away Holly’s album, pulled out the new batch she’d just given me, and laid them out on the adjoining table. “These are from Tuesday’s funeral lunch. Anything jump out at you? My theory is that somewhere in here is the person who attacked me and killed our ex.”

“So you don’t like my Courtney MacEwan–Roger Mannis theory?”

“I like it. Just look at the pictures, will you?”

Marla sighed. But she was full of pie, so she didn’t complain.

We pored over the glossy shots of Tuesday’s event. There were Ted and Ginger Vikarios, Ted looking tipsy, Ginger forcing a smile. Holly Kerr appeared serene beside her church friends. Courtney, her figure shown off to advantage by her hands on her hips, stared in the direction of John Richard and Sandee. Her facial expression could have had the caption “Woman Chewing a Lemon.” Lana Della Robbia and her sidekick Dannyboy laughed at somebody’s joke.

“Hold on,” I said, grabbing the photo with the laughing Lana and Dannyboy. Behind them, a man huddled beside the window.

“Who’s he?” Marla asked.

“I think it’s our Elvis impersonator! Bobby Calhoun, Sandee’s boyfriend.” Marla stared at the picture with me. “So,” I went on, “he was there. I can’t believe it! Maybe he’s the one who trashed my food and chucked me into the ground.”

“But why would he do that?”

I looked at her. “All right, think. If you’re dying of jealousy, and you’re going to kill the new boyfriend of your girlfriend, how do you set it up? Maybe you want to make it look as if it’s the ex-wife of your girlfriend’s new boyfriend.”

“Hold on, I’m having a sugar rush.” Marla closed her eyes, then opened them. “So you’re saying Bobby trashed your place and chopped you in the neck so you’d have a motive to be pissed off with the Jerk?”

“Exactly.”

“And why did he come to the lunch?”

I said, “My guess is that he followed Sandee everywhere. You remember how nervous she was at the strip club. And also, if Bobby’s at the lunch, then he looks for an opportunity to go through my van, so he can steal something to drop at the scene. Imagine his delight when he found my gun.”

“Uh-huh. And the reason he stole your kitchen shears?”

I tilted my head and blew air in the direction of the log ceiling. “Maybe he always wanted to be a barber.”

“When all else fails, there’s always wild speculation!” Marla said brightly. “Think we’ll have this figured out by the time the picnic begins?”

“All right, I guess I should go work,” I said, picking up the photos and the album. Marla snagged her dish and wiggled her hips as she sashayed out of the dining room ahead of me. The white spangles on her pantsuit glittered in the sunlight. Then she stopped abruptly and glanced back. “Goldy? Are you sure you’re all right? You look bad.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, and followed her into the kitchen.

Marla left to see if she could find some old friends. I resolved to put the Jerk, Cecelia, and everything else associated with this frightful week out of my head. For the next half hour, Liz and I worked side by side, drizzling balsamic vinaigrette over the chops. The brining gave the pork its butterlike texture; the vinaigrette gave each bite a zingy taste of herbs. When we finished with the meat, I moved on to arranging the salad in lettuce-lined bowls while Liz whisked the dressing. After putting the last touches on the salad bowls, I washed my hands one last time. The thought of the medical examiner washing her hands before doing the autopsy on Cecelia Brisbane made me suddenly dizzy. What if Cecelia had been killed by John Richard’s murderer, because of what she knew about the Jerk? I told myself to stop thinking like this, and picked up a carton of wine bottles. Then I turned to go back to the kitchen and ran right into Liz and her gallon of salad dressing. The resulting spew of oil, vinegar, herbs, and cuss words would have gotten me forever expelled from the Sunday School Teachers Association. Luckily, the vinaigrette missed my uniform. This was a good thing because I didn’t have any more clean ones.

I helped Liz clean up and make a second gallon of dressing while Julian and Tom cooked the chops. Finally, it was time to haul the food out to the buffet. Taking care to give each other a wide berth, Liz, Julian, Tom, and I conveyed the chops, salads, and rolls to their long tables. I greeted old friends, answered questions about “dear Arch,” and ducked queries regarding the sheriff’s-department investigation into John Richard’s death. Julian and Liz—sporting a clean pair of dressing-free pants from her car—guided the revelers down four lines for the buffet. The partygoers seemed both hungry and interested in the police work across the lake. But once they’d filled their plates with food and the speeches started, they focused on the matters at hand. Thank God.

Julian, Liz, and I were mercifully not expected to listen to the tributes. We moved between tables smoothly serving drinks and clearing plates, and eventually, serving thick wedges of strawberry pie topped with vanilla ice cream. To the unlucky few who were allergic to strawberries, we offered large bowls of ice cream.

When the last speech was done and the partygoers were heading toward their cars, Nan Watkins came over to thank me. Holly Kerr, patting her wiry gray hair, accompanied her. They were both beaming.

“That was splendid,” Holly enthused. She’d clearly recovered from the committee breakfast, which relieved me. “How could you do three magnificent events in one week? You are a marvel.”

“Really superb,” Nan echoed. The dark eyes in her round chipmunk face had become brightened by several glasses of wine. “I’m going to be walking off this food for the rest of the summer. It was great.”

“I’m glad you had fun,” I replied.

Nan’s voice cracked. “To see so many people, to have such lovely food, to have your staff serve so smoothly…it’s just, well…how can I thank you?”

Lucky for me, I didn’t believe in rhetorical questions. I said, “Well, would you look at something for me?”

Nan, taken aback, said that of course she would. I was not prepared, however, for Holly to follow her into the Roundhouse dining room. I made the split-second decision to open up the photo album anyway. It was Holly’s album, in any event. The three of us walked to the wooden table holding the book of photos.

“See this picture of Talitha Vikarios?” I asked innocently. “From the old days?” With my free hand, I pointed to the candy striper holding Arch. “Did she have any dealings with John Richard?” I asked. “Did she have a negative encounter with my ex-husband?” If so, I was thinking, could that explain the fight that the Jerk and Ted had outside the Roundhouse Tuesday afternoon?

“Don’t!” exclaimed Holly Kerr. To my surprise, she whirled and walked away so quickly, I didn’t have a chance to say anything. What was going on here? She was the one who’d given me these photos. Then again, maybe the rumor Marla had heard, about Talitha being involved with Albert Kerr, was true.

“What was that about?” I asked Nan as I watched Holly rush to her car. I turned back to Nan, whose face was studiously blank. “Nan? What is it?”

“I really shouldn’t—”

Okay, now I was getting upset. “Can’t you please help me figure out who killed John Richard? So I can get out of being a suspect?”

“Talitha Vikarios is dead.” Nan’s voice was matter-of-fact. “She was killed in a car accident in Utah last month.” Nan clamped her chipmunk mouth shut; her eyes darted in all directions. She either wanted someone to rescue her, or she wanted to make sure no one was listening to us. She said, “The Vikarioses have suffered so much. Ginger still can’t stop crying.”

“I know. I saw her weeping in her car,” I replied. “But I’m suffering, too. Did my ex-husband hurt this young woman? Did he have an affair with her and dump her?”

Nan’s expression turned sad. “Oh, Goldy. I don’t want to revisit the Talitha mess. I don’t want Ginger and Ted to suffer.”

“Nan,” I said. “Could you just please tell me Talitha’s history?”

Nan’s small eyes got a faraway look. “Tal, that’s what we called her. Rhymes with Al. She…left the hospital and virtually disappeared. Her parents said she was doing missionary work as a field nurse, but really, they had no idea where she’d gone. I used to correspond with her, in secret.” Nan’s small red tongue darted out to lick her lips. “Tal…was pregnant with Albert Kerr’s child. The Kerrs had already left for England, and Tal had resolved not to make trouble for them.” Nan sighed. “But when the Denver newspapers discovered Talitha and her son, she did tell her parents about Albert Kerr. Ginger and Ted contacted Albert and Holly, of course. A lot of people said they had a long-distance falling-out, but I don’t know how true that is. And then Albert got cancer, so…”

“Did Albert admit fathering the child?”

Nan looked suddenly weary. “I don’t know. But all of a sudden, Ted and Ginger Vikarios had money again. They moved from Colorado Springs back to Aspen Meadow this year. They bought a condo, they bought an SUV, they began eating out in new clothes, and they became members of the country club. And most weirdly, they were all reconciled. The Kerrs and Vikarioses became friends again.”

“Friends? After the Vikarios Victory over Sin empire had been ruined?”

Nan shrugged her rounded shoulders. “If it looks like a payoff and smells like a payoff, maybe it is a payoff.”

“A payoff—” I began, but was interrupted.

Liz and Julian had walked up to us and now stood side by side at one of the dining-room tables. They both looked extremely uncomfortable.

I turned my attention away from Nan. “What? The tent’s coming loose from its moorings?”

Liz and Julian looked at each other, as if each was afraid to tell me the news. Liz pressed her lips together and stared at the ground. Julian blinked. Nan, suddenly curious, seemed to enjoy my being in suspense.

I flipped the photo album closed. Tears stung my eyes as I faced Julian. “Something’s happened to Arch?”

“No, boss.” he replied, his voice quiet. “Just…don’t worry about cleaning up from the picnic. Liz and I can do it.” He cleared his throat. “The problem is that—”

But he was spared being the bearer of news. From the corner of my eye, I caught Detective Blackridge entering the dining room. My skin went colder than the inside of our freezer.

“What the hell—” I began.

“Mrs. Schulz?” asked Blackridge as he walked up. “You need to come with me.”

17

I glared at him. The detective didn’t back down. I said, “Forget it.”

“Mrs. Schulz, please.” Was that a hint of entreaty in Blackridge’s voice?

I turned to Julian. “Where’s Tom?”

“We don’t need Investigator Schulz,” Blackridge interjected. “Just you.”

I gave him as scathing a look as a woman scared out of her wits could summon on short notice. Nan, meanwhile, scuttled off. I turned back to my assistants. To Julian, I said in a low voice, “Could you please find Tom and tell him I need him?”

Julian nodded and took off in the direction of the kitchen. I addressed Liz. “Would you be willing to call Brewster Motley? He’s my attorney, and he’s in the phone book. If at all possible, I need him to meet me down at the sheriff’s department.”

“I’m not taking you to the department.” Blackridge again.

“You’re not taking me anywhere.”

Liz took my cold hand in her warm one. “Goldy. He says he’s not here to arrest you. He just needs to talk to you.”

Perspiration trickled inside my uniform. “I don’t think so.” Unfortunately, I knew all about how cops were allowed to deceive suspects to get the truth out of them. And of course I applauded the practice when law enforcement was dealing with a real criminal. But this was not one of those times.

“Let Julian and me clean up here. Please, Goldy, it’s okay.”

“Thanks, Liz, but it is not okay. Not two times in one week.” I turned to Blackridge. “If you just want to have a conversation, what’s wrong with the telephone?”

Blackridge closed his eyes. Then he rubbed his forehead and let out a huge sigh. Women! Finally he said, “Should we start over here?”

“Thank you, but I don’t want to.” If I was trying to teach Arch to be more polite, I needed to set the same standard for myself, right? And I recognized, belatedly, that I hadn’t been exactly civil to this detective. On the other hand, we had a history, and not a happy one. “Sorry, but I need to finish up here, and I have my family to take care of.”

Blackridge turned abruptly as Tom strode into the dining room. I could sense the difference in Blackridge immediately: a deferential attitude, and something like relief. And did I see in my husband’s rapid walk, lifted chin, and commanding presence a hint of his old confident-investigator self? Relief surged through me, too.

“Schulz,” Blackridge said under his breath. He moved off to confer with Tom, out of earshot.

My cell phone chirped. “Mom?” The connection was weak, and I could barely make out Arch’s crackly voice. Even so, I was sure I detected a note of fear in his voice. “There are a couple of cops here at Todd’s. They want me to…” His words dissolved in a storm of static.

“What? Arch? Arch!” The cell phone was silent.

Tom left Blackridge and approached me. “They need Arch’s and your help.” A note of authority underlay his soothing voice, and this made me uneasy. “You don’t have to go with them, and neither does he. But I think it would be a good idea.”

“They need our help for what, Tom?” My voice cracked.

My husband’s handsome face softened. “First, you need to know that the firearms test came back. Korman wasn’t killed with bullets from your thirty-eight. They’re from a twenty-two-caliber Ruger.”

“How comforting. So my gun was just dropped by his body?”

“Apparently.”

“Then am I cleared?”

Tom’s green eyes sifted through the gaggle of departing women outside. “Not totally.”

“Tom!”

His mouth turned down at the edges as he returned my gaze. “The GSR test on your hands came back positive. Your weapon was found at the scene. They can’t clear you yet.”

“So their theory is that I used a twenty-two to kill him, but dropped my thirty-eight there because I’m terminally stupid?”

Blackridge coughed, as in hurry up.

Tom took my hand. “They’re hoping you’ll go with them to Korman’s house now. If you want, you can give permission for Arch to be taken there—”

“John Richard’s house?”

Tom paused. “Two men showed up at Korman’s house a few hours ago. A neighbor thought they were investigators. But everyone over in the country-club area is so skittish now, the neighbor called the department to be sure. Our crime-scene guys pulled up stakes yesterday, so the department dispatched a car to investigate. By the time our deputies got there, the place had been ransacked. The pair of vandals making the mess had taken off.” Tom sighed. “But they weren’t just vandals. They were looking for something.”

“Besides money-laundering, what was John Richard up to?” I shook my head. “I mean, it must have been something big.”

“Our guys don’t think the murder was a professional hit. Still, they have to try to figure out if the vandals took anything, and if they did, what it was.”

“Tom, please! I haven’t spent any time in that house.”

“No, but Arch has.” I snorted, but Tom went on: “Sandee the stripper can’t leave the Rainbow now to help them out. This afternoon, she’s dancing or whatever it is she does. So our guys are looking to Arch and you. And, since Arch is a minor, you have to be there.”

Desperation rose in my throat. “I don’t want Arch to have to look at his dead father’s house, especially if it’s been trashed. It could be too much trauma for him to absorb.”

Tom put his arm around me. “Why don’t we go outside?” He held up his hand to Blackridge, indicating that he didn’t want us to be bothered.

Outside, I said, “I don’t know, Tom.”

He held me tight. “I understand. Whether you two do this or not is up to you. I’m not going to pressure you, don’t worry. You’re the mom.”

A sudden breeze washed down from the pines above the golf course, bringing the scent of smoke. Despite the recent hailstorm, the second forest fire the women had mentioned at that morning’s breakfast seemed to be gaining. Fear lurched around in my chest: fear of fire, fear for Arch again being overwhelmed by grief. And something else: I was afraid to go into John Richard’s rental house. Tom always said he could pick up the emotions of a homicide victim at the scene: the panic, the terror. I was worried for Arch, yes. I was also worried about myself.

“Tom, are you sure they don’t suspect me of breaking in?”

“You’re not two guys.”

“Right.” Still, I hesitated. My interrogation at the department had been no fun. The visit from Blackridge, when I’d given him the letter Cecelia had mailed me, had been very much less than delightful. “You’re sure this isn’t a trap? Blackridge trying to get me to say something incriminating? ‘Whoops! There’s my butcher knife I dropped here, too!’ ”

Tom shook his head. “He pulls that kind of stunt, he knows I’ll make his life hell.”

As if on cue, Blackridge approached us. “Mrs. Schulz, please,” he begged. “Your ex-husband’s place is a wreck. If we can develop leads from the scene, we’ll have a much better chance of closing this case.”

“I want to talk to my son first. This might be too hard for him. If he doesn’t want to go into his father’s house, I’m not going to make him.” I softened my tone. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Blackridge pursed his lips and nodded.

“And I want my lawyer there,” I added.

“We already called him.” Blackridge seemed eager to please, like a puppy dog that’s pooped inside and now wants to be pals. “Motley’s meeting us at Korman’s house,” he added.

“All right,” I said. “Just a minute.” I checked the tent. A few stragglers were disassembling the centerpieces and helping pick up trash. When I got back to the parking lot, I said, “I want to go over there in my own van. If I go in a police car, everyone will think I’ve been arrested.”

“Suit yourself,” Blackridge replied.

Tom promised to stay with Julian and Liz until the picnic detritus was cleared and Front Range Rentals had taken down the tent. I climbed into my van, followed Blackridge’s sedan through the clot of departing cars, and gunned the accelerator toward Aspen Meadow Country Club.

Again the smoky wind whipped down from the mountains. Fluffs of dandelion and cottonwood scattered from the road and rolled into a ditch. Dust slammed my windshield, just like on Tuesday afternoon, the last time I’d ventured to John Richard’s house. I took a deep breath and inhaled more smoke.

Just before we turned into the Aspen Meadow Country Club area, my tires chewed into a mound of dirt that had washed onto the highway from a house-construction site. I cursed and hit the brakes, then noticed a group of women ranged on a deck overlooking the club entrance. They were pointing first to Blackridge’s police car, then to my van. They were talking excitedly. Neighborhood watch? Or neighborhood gossips, who’d be paid twenty-five dollars by the Mountain Journal for a news tip? In the absence of Cecelia, folks’ desire for dirty laundry was still unquenchable. And the last thing I wanted was to face more reporters at John Richard’s house.

No other vehicles awaited us in the Stoneberry cul-de-sac. Blackridge signaled for me to park. I pulled into another mound of shiny grit that had washed onto the street. I cut the engine and stared at the street, where glimmering pebbles speckled the drying mud. A fresh wave of dizziness assaulted me. Well, I was most assuredly not going to just sit in my vehicle getting anxious for Arch to arrive. I picked up the cell and dialed Tom.

“The team from the rental company is just starting on the tent,” he informed me. “How are you doing?”

“I’m seeing spots in front of my eyes, so I’m not doing so hot. Speaking of which, have you heard anything about this new fire? I know it’s up in the wildlife preserve.”

“It’s already covered a thousand acres, and they have zero containment.” He yelled directions to somebody who’d called to him, then came back. “I heard something else, though.” My heart plummeted as I imagined the gossips calling the newspaper, the newspaper calling the department, and everyone wanting to know what was going on at Dr. Korman’s house. “It’s about the bullets,” Tom said, his voice terse. “The firearms examiner thought he recognized them from another homicide in Denver. They’re doing the tests now.”

I blinked. “What? A criminal who killed someone in Denver might have also shot John Richard? Have they solved the other homicide?” I looked up the driveway to John Richard’s rental and wondered, Who shot you? What were you doing? Would you not give them what they wanted?

“They haven’t solved the other case. But they’re looking for connections. Look, I gotta go help these people, the wind is making their job tough.”

The call waiting beeped, so I signed off. I hoped it would be Arch. To my dismay, the caller ID read “Rainbow Men’s Club.” Just what I needed.

“Hello, Goldy? It’s Sandee. Whatcha doin’?”

“Not much, Sandee. What are you doing?”

She giggled. “Gettin’ ready to take my clothes off. Listen, your friend Marla called me. She wanted to give me a ride to, you know, John Richard’s funeral tomorrow. My boyfriend’s, like, jealous, and I’m afraid to just leave. If I tell him I’m going to a church meeting with a friend, that ought to work.”

“Sandee.” My voice faltered. I wanted to scream, If you would just tell him the truth? Maybe ya’d get along better with him? “Sandee…I know he’s the jealous type. He beat up that bald guy who was paying attention to you in the club.”

“Whoops!” Her voice sounded gleeful.

“And he was watching you and John Richard at Dr. Kerr’s funeral lunch on Tuesday.”

“He wuz? That prick!”

“So,” I said with as much calm as I could muster, “what do you suppose the chances are that Bobby followed the two of you back to John Richard’s house and then Bobby shot John Richard?”

“Gosh, I don’t know!”

“Sandee! Does your boyfriend own a gun?”

“He used to. But he lost it.”

Wait a minute. “What kind of gun did he lose, Sandee?”

“Ruger? Does that sound right?”

“What caliber was the Ruger?”

“Isn’t Kaliber a beer?”

“When did he lose the gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did he say he lost it?”

She sighed. “I mean it. I don’t know. His elevator doesn’t exactly go to the top floor, ya know?”

“Where is he now?”

“Now?”

I rubbed my forehead. Talking to an actual parrot would have been easier. What had John Richard seen in her? Not her brains, clearly. “Yes, Sandee,” I replied. “Now.”

“Practicing with the band? At the house? They’re going on tour next week. Well, I keep telling him, this isn’t really a tour, man—”

“Where’s the house, Sandee?”

“What house?”

“The house where Bobby is practicing.”

“Oh, 2468 Ponderosa Pass. He won’t let me practice with them. If he’s so jealous, I keep asking him, how come he won’t take me with them? You know, Nashville Bobby and the Boys, Plus the Girl with the Boobs? But he says—”

Blackridge knocked on my window and I flinched.

“I have to go, Sandee.”

“Wait a sec! So did they get to Dr. Korman’s house? Tell those cops I want my stuff back!”

I signed off and rolled down the window.

Blackridge said, “We’ve got a team canvassing the neighbors, seeing if anyone caught a better look at the two guys who made the mess inside. Also, your son will be here shortly.”

“Wait. You know Sandee Blue, the stripper? She just called me.” Blackridge’s face became impassive, so I rushed on: “She just told me her jealous boyfriend Bobby had a Ruger, and supposedly lost it.”

“You and Sandee talk about weapons?” Blackridge asked.

I flushed. “Not really. I just thought I should pass on what she said.” I gave him the address on Ponderosa Pass while he scribbled.

“Got it, Mrs. Schulz. This is very interesting. Thanks.” Was that a wee crack in Blackridge’s attitude toward me?

“What about the strip club Sandee works at?” I asked. I had to be careful, because I didn’t want to press my luck with Blackridge, and I certainly didn’t want to give away Marla’s and my visit to the Rainbow. “Did you ever link that club to anything?”

“Not yet,” he said. To my astonishment, Blackridge actually smiled at me before sauntering back to his vehicle.

I rolled the window back up and stared out at the gleaming gravel. Then I nabbed my cell and punched in the Mountain Journal office. It was past five, the sun was sliding toward the western mountains, and it was unlikely anyone would be there. But I was so used to Frances Markasian calling and demanding information that I thought it was time to give her—or her voice mail—a bit of her own medicine. And anyway, I couldn’t bear to sit in this van and worry about Bobby Calhoun and his gun.

“Markasian,” she answered.

I smiled in spite of myself. “Ask not what Goldy can do for you,” I said. “Ask what you can do for—”

“Cut the crap, Goldy. I don’t know what happened to Cecelia Brisbane.”

“But you’ve got a theory, surely.”

“Don’t call me Shirley. Hold on a sec.”

I sighed and looked out the window. The moon, a large, pale disk in the blue haze, was rising in the east. Birds still chirped in the trees, a sure sign we were a long way from the dark of night. I knew I shouldn’t keep looking up at John Richard’s house, but I did anyway. What did I feel? Nothing. Maybe that was denial. I knew guilt was hovering, waiting to pounce, but I wasn’t feeling it at the moment. How many times had I wished him dead? Uncountable. But I was feeling neither guilt nor joy. Really, what I felt was numb. I shook my head in disbelief. He’s gone.

And what had been going on with him, anyway? I didn’t just mean with whatever crime or cruelty had gotten him whacked. I meant in general. So charming and yet so mean, he had been a conundrum. And now I was on the phone with a reporter—a sometime friend whose nutty intensity had driven me batty more than once—because I just couldn’t understand John Richard, in life or in death. Worse, his murder had severely strained my relationship with my son. Maybe when this crime was solved, I’d be able to feel again. Maybe I’d be able to live again. Maybe.

“Goldy? You there? Sorry ’bout that. They’ve got a fire up in the preserve.”

“I know, I heard. How big is it now?”

“Eleven hundred acres. They think it’ll be contained by morning.” She sighed. “I still don’t know anything about Cecelia. Can you tell me something?”

“I wish I could. But she turned up dead just a couple of days after I found my dead ex-husband. Can’t you give me some help? Any help? Please?”

“You think the two deaths are connected?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that having the two occur so close together is more than weird.”

“Have you got anything to trade for it?”

I took a deep breath. Was it worth it? I had to take the risk. “I’ll tell you, but you absolutely, positively cannot come over here now.”

“Where’s here?”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah. Spill.”

“John Richard’s house was broken into this afternoon. Ransacked. The cops have got me over here now to go through it, see if anything is missing.” I omitted any mention of Arch.

“Holy cow. When can I come over?”

“You can’t. Just start bugging the cops in about two hours with your ‘Do you confirm or deny’ questions. If you’re pressed, say a neighbor phoned you. Now tell me what you know.”

“Okay, Goldy. Thanks for the tip. First of all, Cecelia Brisbane was extremely unhappy—”

“Do you think she committed suicide?”

Frances paused. “It’s possible. But I wasn’t picking up on her being depressed after the death of Walter. But lately, I couldn’t say.”

“Is this in code? What are you talking about?”

“What I tell you absolutely goes no further than this phone call.” I grunted assent, and she went on: “Walter Brisbane was charming to everyone on the outside and a tyrannical boss, Goldy. I mean, the man was a nut. He yelled at Cecelia and treated her like dirt on the floor. After he committed suicide, she seemed to be okay for a while. Then lately she’d gone into a funk. I couldn’t understand it, because everyone was complimenting her on that photo in the library, her daughter doing her patriotic duty in the armed services, that kind of thing. Cecelia would glow for a while, and then slump.”

I said, “Do you know this daughter?”

“Alex? No. She’s a naval officer. Cecelia said Alex’s ship was doing exercises with the Greek navy off Piraeus.” Frances inhaled. “You’re going to tell me anything you learn about Korman, right? And you won’t breathe a word of this until I’ve got it nailed down.”

“Okay, okay. But I need to know if any of this involved John Richard.”

“I don’t know who it involves, yet. When I told you I didn’t know what happened to Cecelia, I wasn’t telling you the whole story. What do you think drove Walter to suicide?”

Brewster Motley’s Mercedes pulled into the cul-de-sac. The sun winked off his windshield. I could just make out his blond head, nodding as he talked into a cell phone. Arch was supposed to be here five minutes ago.

“I need you to cut to the chase, Frances.”

She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure about why, out of the blue, Walter packed it in. But my theory is that somebody threatened to expose him. You know that pay-phone call that preceded his death? They never figured out who it was from or what was said. Cecelia has been fine for all these years since he died, and then in May she started getting really, really depressed when she was at her desk. She’d put on a good face when she was in public, then come back here and go into a funk. I mean, as in, she’d learned who killed Kennedy and couldn’t tell anybody and couldn’t put it in the paper.”

“And?”

“And I talked to her neighbor, Sherry Boone.”

“Oh, God, Frances.”

“Check this out, then. My theory was that old ghosts had suddenly come up in Cecelia’s mind, and she was obsessed with whatever was bothering her.” Frances paused. “In May, Cecelia broke down to Sherry Boone. Cecelia sobbed that her daughter, Alex, had claimed since age ten that her father had been having sex with her. Cecelia cried to Sherry that she hadn’t believed a word of her daughter’s story. But after Alex finished high school, when she left and wouldn’t come back, Mother Cecelia began to wonder.”

My hand gripping the phone went cold. “So you’re saying Cecelia didn’t know what was going on in her own house while Alex was growing up?”

Frances’s voice was strained. “Do mothers ever know? Do mothers ever not know? You’re the one with the degree in psychology.”

I glanced at the clock. Brewster was still on the phone, and no cop was coming to fetch me. “So Cecelia was all happy because people were praising her for a daughter doing her patriotic duty. But this same daughter had been sexually violated by her father. And she was depressed because she was finally facing the truth. So…how and why did Cecelia die?”

“That’s what I’m looking into now. When Cecelia did columns, she kept notes. Naturally, the cops took her computer and files. But when the news raced up here that it was Cecelia’s body in the lake, I scooted over to her desk. By the time the sheriff’s department arrived, I’d nabbed her disks. They weren’t password protected, so I printed everything out.”

“Frances—”

“How did you think I was going to get material for this story?” she protested. “After Cecelia got interested in something and did background research, she’d write up a bunch of questions that might get answered in a column. Like with your hubby and Courtney—”

“Ex-hubby.”

“Yeah, well. Cecelia was poking into that tennis-and-golf tournament at the club, the one that’s taking place today and tomorrow? She wanted to know who had paid for what in the sponsorship, and Korman’s motive for putting up all that dough. Your ex-hubby was notoriously cheap with money, apparently.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. And his motive for the sponsorship was…?”

“Dr. John Richard Korman was making his second debut into society,” Frances announced dramatically. “On the tail of Courtney MacEwan. Or at least, on the tail of her tennis dress.” Frances shuffled through some papers. “Here are the other things she was working on. ‘A firing at the fire department.’ ” More shuffling. “ ‘Teachers are starving and it has nothing to do with school cafeterias.’ Here’s something up your alley: ‘Health inspector Roger Mannis—being paid off to create trouble?’ ”

“Did she have any research on that one?” I asked sharply. Behind me, a black-and-white was pulling up.

“Nope, sorry, or at least not on the disk I downloaded. Here’s her last note to herself. ‘Hypocrisy? Look more closely at Vikarioses.’ ”

I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. “Is that about the money John Richard supposedly stole? You know, your theory on the down payment on our house? That he supposedly didn’t repay?”

“No, no, no. I was wrong on that. Your ex got the money from his father, not the Vikarioses. I’ve got a source at the bank, and she looked up the old check.”

I exhaled in relief. I knew Frances had been wrong. If John Richard stiffed somebody, he always crowed about it, then claimed he’d been justified. “So who called you with an anonymous tip with the claim about the fifty Gs coming from Ted Vikarios, and him demanding it back?”

“I don’t know. It was just a woman’s voice on my voice mail. Not only do I not know, it looks as if Cecelia didn’t know anything about it, either.”

The patrol car behind me flashed its lights. I was desperate to know if Cecelia had left any notes about the supposed rape. But I didn’t want Frances looking into another allegation, especially since the cops were supposedly working on it. Beside the curb, Arch was looking around, his expression wary. “I need to hop,” I told Frances.

“I want to know what’s missing from Korman’s house!”

“I promise I’ll tell you later. The cops are here,” I said, and hung up on her screeching protest.

I stashed the cell in my pocket and jumped out of my van. Arch’s face looked so haggard, it was hard to believe he’d enjoyed his brief time at the water park and at Todd’s. Probably his feelings—or lack of them—were fluctuating like mine. You can’t feel grief all the time.

“Arch, honey,” I began when I walked up to him, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” His words came out weary and resigned. His face set in bitterness, he glanced up at his father’s rental Tudor. “You know the amazing thing? Say Dad hadn’t saved that guard’s life. Then the governor wouldn’t have commuted Dad’s sentence, and he’d still be alive.”

I pressed my lips together and groaned sympathetically. Of course, I wanted to say, If your father hadn’t been engaged in something underhanded, he’d still be alive. But I didn’t.

“Mom?” Arch turned earnest eyes back at me. “The detective told me it wasn’t bullets from your gun that killed Dad.”

“I know.”

Arch swallowed and adjusted his new wire-rimmed glasses. The splash of freckles across his nose, disappearing fast with adolescence, was suddenly visible in the late afternoon light. “I’m sorry I got mad at you. I know you didn’t mean for your gun to get stolen. Oh, gee, Mom, I just feel so bad, and I didn’t want to make it sound like I blamed you…”

I pulled him in for a hug. Oddly, I felt cheered. Arch was getting his conscience back; he was apologizing and meaning it. Maybe I hadn’t done such a terrible job these last fifteen years. Then again, maybe he wasn’t feeling hugely affectionate, as he wrenched himself away from my hug. After all, there were people around. I said, “It’s okay.”

“Mom, listen. I feel terrible.” He looked down, then scraped the toe of his tennis shoe through the dirt deposited in the street from the recent rain. I remembered Tom’s terse statement: Your son has never played golf in his life. Maybe now I was going to hear what he had been doing every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. “Mom, there’s something—”

“Come on, folks!” Blackridge called from the bottom of the driveway.

Arch whirled away and hustled to meet the detective.

Brewster Motley cantilevered himself out of his Mercedes and approached me with a spring in his step. I’d finally decided who Brewster most reminded me of: Tigger, in the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. Sure, Brewster had a client who was a suspect in a murder case, and sure, we were here at her murdered ex-husband’s house to see who had trashed it. But hey! This is what Brewsters do best!

“Goldy! What’s happening?” He wore khaki pants and a burgundy golf shirt, and I wondered what recreational activity the house inspection had interrupted. He stopped in front of me and pulled up on his belt—a grosgrain affair covered with little burgundy frogs—and eyed the cops at the front door. “You know what they’re searching for?”

“Not a clue.”

“Okay, look.” He leaned toward me, but kept his gaze fixed on the cops. “Don’t say anything unnecessary. Don’t make any extraneous comments. If they ask you anything beyond, ‘Do you see anything missing from this room,’ say, ‘I don’t know.’ ”

“Fine. You heard about the ballistics test?”

He grinned. “You bet. But with a positive GSR on you, they may try to link you to that twenty-two.”

I felt as if I’d been punched. “They would do that?”

He raised an eyebrow and gave me a grim smile.

“Listen, Brewster, you don’t need to stay.”

He ducked his chin, shaking the blond mop in an emphatic negative. “I’m here. I’m going in with you. The cops could try to trap you with questions. This whole thing could be an ambush.”

“Even using Arch?”

“You bet.”

I trudged up the driveway with my criminal lawyer at my side. At the front door, I gave formal permission for Arch to go in with Reilly and Blackridge, and agreed to accompany them. I felt an unaccountable dread, wondering if I really would detect John Richard’s emotions before someone shot him in the heart and then the groin.

After crime-scene investigators had returned to the department, they’d given Blackridge the keys to the front door. To force their way through the windowed back door, the two vandals had shattered the glass. The kitchen floor was a mess. In addition to everything else, Blackridge added. Still, I was not prepared for what lay within.

It was as if a hurricane had blown through the house. Everything—and I do mean everything—had been pulled apart. The new leather sectional couch Arch had told me his father had bought had been disemboweled. Its stuffing lay in piles around the room. All of John Richard’s CDs were scattered on top of the wood floor and the disheveled Oriental rug, which had been pulled up and moved halfway into the hall. The sound-system speakers Arch told me John Richard had paid ten thousand dollars for had been ripped open. Woofers, wires, and amplifiers lay strewn about like the guts of a giant robot. The vandals—or whatever they were—had even smashed the giant TV to smithereens. Why would someone who was searching for something do that? I began to wonder about these robbers’ motives.

Arch stood, his mouth open, and took it all in. Under the detectives’ gentle probing, he began an oral inventory of what he thought had been in the room. As Reilly scribbled, I stepped carefully into the slate-covered hallway. There, men’s and women’s clothing—Sandee’s, presumably—had been unceremoniously chucked from the bedrooms. Athletic shoes, dress shoes, backless high heels with matching purses, John Richard’s Italian loafers and high-end running shoes—all these lay heaped between the clothes. John Richard’s beloved magazine articles about himself—beautifully matted and framed—had been wrenched from the walls and smashed. Why?

Blackridge, who had followed me, saw my puzzled look. “Probably looking for a safe of some kind. Ditto with the television. You can buy them hollow, to conceal stuff.”

“But…why the mess?” I glimpsed John Richard’s favorite Mountain West magazine article from twelve years before: “Korman Named One of Denver’s Top Twenty Doctors.” There was another: “Southwest Hospital Lauded for State-of-the-Art Obstetrics Program.” What patients never knew is that those articles, even the magazines, were commonly paid for by the doctors themselves. They were like advertising supplements, even though John Richard (and others) often clipped off the teensy-weensy printed word advertisement before having them framed and hung in their offices.

Everything he did was a lie, I thought. Everything. He never cared about other people, only himself. Without warning, I remembered John Richard’s strangely blank face when I hung up the phone and told him my grandfather had died. I’d slumped into one of our old kitchen chairs and started crying. He’d turned away and searched the refrigerator for a beer.

I gaped at the mess in the hall. Suddenly, I knew what he really was. I’d had all those courses in psychology, but I’d never seen it, not until he was dead. John Richard had been a psychopath. White collar, to be sure, but a psychopath nonetheless. Their main characteristic? They don’t feel.

I swallowed, trying to remember what I’d learned. Psychopathy resulted from a genetic predisposition, not arising, researchers were now discovering, from environment. The serial rapists and killers had usually had an abusive childhood with all kinds of narcissistic injuries. But what about psychopaths born to loving, supportive environments? Yes, John Richard’s mother had been an alcoholic, but he’d still been his parents’ golden boy. And he’d gone on to use people and toss them, in an endless attempt to feel something. To get a thrill.

The male psychopath, I remembered, also was extremely adept at keeping a group of adoring women around him. The psychopath could look into their eyes and see what those women needed—affection, maybe, or flattery. Ordinarily, they were women with enormous dependency needs who….

None of this was making me feel really great. Still, I thought I’d known him. Understood him. But I hadn’t.

I blinked. Blackridge was asking me a question, something about a weapon.

“Did Dr. Korman keep a firearm, Mrs. Schultz?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. I didn’t need Brewster’s advice to answer truthfully. Even before the divorce, there were many things about John Richard Korman’s life that eluded me. One thing stayed constant, though. Should I tell Blackridge?

The Jerk lied. About everything. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. One of Denver’s Top Twenty Doctors. Pu-leeze.

“Nope,” Arch piped up. “No gun. Dad tried to learn how to shoot, but he wasn’t any good at, not like my mom—”

“Arch!” interrupted Brewster. He was standing by the hearth, arms crossed. He grinned widely at Arch and cocked his head. “You’re a great kid. Just answer the detectives’ questions with yes or no, okay?”

Arch’s face darkened and he stared at the floor. Here was at least one person who didn’t react well to Brewster’s charm. Still, I’d have wished that Arch’s new foray into honesty could have stopped short of mentioning my prowess on the firing range.

I asked Blackridge, “What about the garage?”

Blackridge noiselessly pointed toward a door. “I’ll take you.”

I stepped around the pile of detritus that contained John Richard’s trashed Wall of Fame articles, more women’s shoes, and a slew of papers. Blackridge opened the garage door and gave me a wry smile. Reilly was now writing down Arch’s recitation of what should have been in the guest room, also wrecked. Brewster clearly thought Arch needed more supervision than I did, so he’d followed them down the hall.

The vandals had wreaked particular havoc in the garage. The cops had hauled away the Audi in search of evidence, but this hadn’t stopped the thugs. They’d dumped out two black plastic bags of garden waste, now a mishmashed heap of lawn clippings, dusty weeds, and small branches. From the suspended wall shelves, they’d pulled and dumped cans of paint, turpentine, weed killer, and fertilizer. As I surveyed the piles, I wondered how much of this stuff had been John Richard’s, and how much of it had belonged to the house’s owner. This was probably the last time he’d rent to a doctor.

“You have to ask yourself,” Blackridge mused as he stared at the mess, “what were they looking for? And why didn’t they get Dr. Korman to give it to them before they killed him?”

I recited my usual, “I don’t know.” When Blackridge gave me a wide-eyed look, I said, “I truly have no idea what was going on. But I’d like to stay here in the garage for a bit, if that’s okay. I won’t touch anything.”

Ever wary, Blackridge circled the chaos. When he seemed satisfied that there was no evidence for me to tamper with, nor any valuables for me to steal, he said he was returning to the living room.

I made an effort to soften my tone. “Thanks.”

When Blackridge had clomped away, I surveyed the garage, then sat on one of the cold concrete steps that led to the floor. When I took a deep breath, the mixed-up scent of spilled motor oil, mildewed grass clippings, and old paint assaulted my nose. I wasn’t particularly enjoying being in there, especially since it inevitably brought back the memory of what I’d last seen in that space: John Richard’s bloody, shot-up body.

I shuddered and closed my eyes, then allowed my mind to travel back. I didn’t want to go to the memory of John Richard dead, I told myself. I wanted to see, or rather feel, what John Richard had been feeling, the moment before he was shot. Could a man who didn’t seem to have feelings experience emotions right before he was killed?

Gooseflesh pimpled my arms. I didn’t know if I was receiving an answer or just getting ridiculously chilled in this place. With my eyes still shut, I conjured up the garage door being opened by remote. I saw my ex-husband hasten the Audi forward. I imagined John Richard checking the car’s rearview window before hitting the button to close the garage door. And then, what?

I swallowed. Because I did feel it. John Richard hadn’t felt terror…or rage. What I was picking up in that garage was something entirely different.

Surprise.

18

I walked back into the house and down the hall. While I was making my way around the piles on the way to the living room, my mind tossed up a joke we’d told in tenth-grade English. It begins with the wife of Dr. Samuel Johnson entering the library. There, she finds the great lexicographer making enthusiastic love to the parlor maid.

“Dr. Johnson!” Mrs. Johnson exclaims. “I am surprised!”

“Madame,” replies Johnson (doing up his pants), “will you never attend to your diction? You are astonished. I am surprised!”

I amended my reaction to the garage. Someone had surprised the Jerk. And he’d been astonished.

Back in the living room, Brewster Motley and Detectives Reilly and Blackridge were talking in low tones as they headed for the front door. From their downcast expressions, it was clear that bringing Arch to the scene of the crime hadn’t yielded the clues they’d hoped for. Brewster’s cell chirped. He turned toward the hearth and began listening to the details of the next crisis. Amid this movement and chatter, Arch stood stock-still in the middle of the living-room mess.

“Honey?” I ventured.

“Yeah, Mom.”

But he didn’t move, and neither did I. Something was bothering him. At the front door, Blackridge twisted his head to see why no one was behind him. His wide, pasty face looked exhausted. Reilly cleared his throat and flipped to a new page on his clipboard.

Arch announced, “I think I know what the vandals were looking for.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’d told us the whole story, and the cops’ expressions had gone from downcast to gleeful. I, for one, was only glad that my son’s rediscovered conscience had superseded his misguided loyalty to his father. What we all learned was this: Every Tuesday and Thursday, when John Richard and Arch had ostensibly been playing golf, they’d been trekking to a bank in nearby Spruce, Colorado. There, John Richard and Arch had opened a safety-deposit-box account. They’d each had keys. Since it was rare for John Richard to trust anyone, even his own son, this part struck me as odd.

“He said he couldn’t trust a soul but me,” Arch told us. “Plus, he swore me to secrecy, even though I have no idea what he was doing with the box. He made me promise not to try to get into it unless something happened to him. Anyway, I keep the key at home in my desk.”

“How’d your dad work the bank visits?” Reilly again.

“Well, first he and Sandee and I went to the country club. Sandee went up to the golf shop while Dad and I went down to the basement. Dad would let me play pool while he went to the men’s locker room to change out of his golf clothes. Then we’d go out the back door, walk around to the parking lot, and drive over to Spruce in the TT. My job was to wait in the car. After we’d done this a couple of times, I always took a book. Anyway, Dad would take the briefcase out of the trunk, and then he’d be gone for about half an hour. And I guess he didn’t just go to the bank. Once I saw him come out of the collectors’ shop.”

“Collectors’ shop?” Reilly asked.

“It’s in the same strip mall,” Arch replied. “The place used to be a movie theater, so it’s huge. The owner buys and sells comics, dolls, key chains, silver, stamps, coins, china, stuff like that. It’s a dump, but some of the kids at my new school like to go in and look around. I went with two of them last week. Didn’t buy anything, though. And Dad wasn’t there.”

I was confused. “What in the world was Sandee doing in the golf shop while you and Dad did your bank run?”

Arch exhaled. “She was supposed to stay there and browse. If anybody asked where Dad was, her job was to say he’d gone to get his golf bag. Then when he went in to get her later, he’d be carrying the golf bag, in case anyone was asking questions.”

So that was how Marla had gotten the idea that Sandee worked in the golf shop. With all that back-and-forth to Spruce twice a week, Sandee must have known the price of every golf shirt, jacket, and plus fours in the place.

“Did Sandee know what he was doing?”

Arch chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. And Dad said I shouldn’t tell Sandee where we were going. She never asked, anyway. She was always nice.” He frowned. “I don’t like keeping secrets. I guess that now that Dad’s gone, it’s okay to tell this one, though.”

“You did the right thing,” said Blackridge. Reilly nodded and snapped a rubber band around the thick wad of clipboard pages. Blackridge checked his watch. “Mrs. Schulz? The bank’s closed. May we have permission to take your son over there tomorrow morning? We need to get into that box.”

I looked at Brewster, who had closed his phone as soon as Arch made his announcement. Now he piped up: “As long as Mrs. Schulz and I are apprised of the contents of the box, then yes.”

Blackridge and Reilly exchanged a look. Blackridge said, “If the material in the box tends to exculpate your client, then we’ll tell you.”

“No good, gentlemen.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Counselor.” Blackridge’s tone was grudging as he and Reilly again headed toward the front door. “Sure. We’ll tell you what’s in there.”

Arch said, “Cool!”

Brewster’s smile was wide. Clearly, making cops do what he wanted was another thing Brewster loved best.

The cops agreed to pick up Arch at half-past eight the next morning, Friday. I stood by the van while Arch gathered the swim gear he’d stashed in the black-and-white. A breeze swished through the Alpine rosebushes girdling the rental house yard while I tried to think. Again, the scent of smoke made me shiver. Frances had said the fire would be contained by morning. Our town was almost nine miles from the preserve, but the smoke stinging my eyes made it seem as if the blaze was right down the street.

Okay, I reminded myself, Think. Boyd had told me the cops knew about the Smurfs John Richard was running to launder money. But if the Jerk was laundering what folks brought to him, why would he also need to visit a bank in Spruce?

Because he was skimming? Had that been why he’d been killed, and his house ransacked?

It still didn’t make sense. I stared at the curb, where pearly rose petals now dappled the shiny ravines of dust. For a moment, I thought I saw some gold glittering in the gravel. But I reminded myself if was probably just pyrite, “fool’s gold,” of which we had an abundance in Colorado. And speaking of fools and their gold, I had another question. If someone was stealing from you, and you were going to kill him for it, wouldn’t you try to find the money first, then shoot later?

The van door slammed. Arch called, “I’m ready, Mom,” and slid into the front seat.

“How’re you doing?” I asked, once we were zooming back home.

“Okay,” he said, his voice weary. “You know who all this investigating makes me feel sorry for?” If he said his father, I was going to scream. But he didn’t. “It makes me feel bad for Tom. You see how much goes into an investigation, and you think, here Tom caught somebody who drowned somebody else, and he lost in court. No wonder Tom’s been down lately. You know, not his usual joking self.”

A rock was forming in my chest. No wonder, indeed.

At home, though, Tom was whistling in the kitchen as he prepared dinner for the three of us: a giant submarine sandwich that was an elaborate affair put together with ingredients from his recent mammoth shopping trip. He’d scooped bread out of a large baguette, filled the center with a heavenly mixture of three Italian cheeses, sausages, salami, sliced garden tomatoes, and arugula, then topped the whole thing with his own garlic dressing. By the time we tumbled into the kitchen to see what he was up to, he was wrapping the sandwich before starting its weighting-down time in the refrigerator, which would help meld all the flavors. In a couple of hours, we would have a feast. No one eats dinner early in the summertime, anyway.

“How are you doing, Tom?” Arch asked, his voice full of concern.

Tom’s head shot up at the unusual question from Arch. I could still see the pain in Tom’s eyes, the heavy weight that seemed to have settled permanently on his shoulders. But I also could tell that he didn’t want Arch to be worrying about him.

“I’m doing well, thank you, Arch.” Tom pulled out two chilled soft drinks and place them on the kitchen table for us. “You guys look whipped, though. How’d it go at your dad’s house?”

Arch took a long swig of pop before recounting an abbreviated version of the trip to Stoneberry Lane.

“So,” Tom mused, “a safety-deposit box, eh? What do you suppose is in there?”

“Bones,” Arch said without irony, before announcing he was going upstairs to call Todd. At the kitchen door, he stopped and cast a long look at Tom. “I’m really sorry about your lost case, Tom.”

Again startled by this sudden interest in his well-being, Tom gaped at Arch. Quickly recovering his composure, Tom replied, “Thanks for the concern, buddy. I’m sorry for your loss, too.”

“I know.” Arch spun slowly and retreated.

Tom’s green eyes questioned me and I shrugged. He muttered something about wonders not ceasing as he placed the sandwich between cookie sheets, laid two stones on top, and put the whole thing in to chill.

“All right, Miss G. You still testing pies?”

“I am. So?”

“After you start on a new pie, I’ve got a story to tell you.”

“Why not just tell me now?”

“Because I want it to be a story for you, not a call to action.”

“Great.” But I booted up the computer and printed out the recipes I’d been working on: crust made with butter and toasted filberts, crust made with butter-flavored shortening, crust made with lard, crust made with a combination of butter and lard.

“And for the filling?” Tom asked.

“I ordered many, many pounds of strawberries from Alicia. My dear supplier said they were the best she’d ever tasted. Plus, this time I’m going to omit the cream filling and just concentrate on the strawberries.” I paused. “What are you doing?”

Tom chuckled as he foraged in the cupboard. “I think we need a chocolate treat.” If I’d ever doubted my maxim that cooking was good therapy, Tom’s first laugh in six weeks was proof enough.

“Are you going to tell me this story?” I asked, once I was rinsing fat, juicy strawberries.

Tom began, “You know how the rain washed out some dirt roads the other night?” I nodded. “It also washed things into the street—in this case, a dumped item that was found not far from Stoneberry. Our guys are thinking this thing rolled down Korman’s driveway and into the street, or else our killer tossed it from the getaway car. So you have the dirt from the street, plus all that dust from Tuesday’s big wind. After that, we had a hailstorm, and after that, a dog got hold of it, took it home, and chewed on it.” I stopped slicing and stared at him. “But as it turned out, the dog’s owner was giving a barbecue last night, and when he was picking up his yard, he found it and figured out some of the mess on it was from his dog’s teeth and the rest was from…something else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The reason Korman’s neighbors didn’t hear the gun going boom was that it had a homemade silencer on it. A pink tennis ball.” He stopped sifting ingredients and opened an envelope. He handed me a Polaroid of something smashed, dirty, and perhaps a bit pink.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Boyd. Our guys went out looking for Bobby Calhoun this afternoon, but he’s up fighting the fire, and can’t be reached. Then they got the call about the tennis ball. A judge signed a quick warrant to search Courtney’s country-club locker. Didn’t find anything. But in the tennis shop? Where the players keep their balls in cubbies with their names on them, sort of like kindergartners? Courtney’s cubby had three cans of tennis balls. Two were closed and one was open. The open can had two tennis balls in it. Who opens a can and just takes out one ball? Our guys are talking to Courtney now.”

I shook my head. Back to the Courtney theory. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Means? Bobby Calhoun wasn’t the only one who could own a Ruger. If Courtney had hired a professional hit man, then that guy might be the one who’d committed the murder in Denver all those months ago.

I measured the strawberries, then mixed together a judicious amount of flour, cornstarch, and sugar. I said, “So did you find out who was killed with the Ruger in Denver?”

From the envelope, Tom retrieved two more items. One was a poor-quality copy of what looked like an employee-of-the-month photo. The man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, had thick glasses and a thin, handsome face. The other photo was of even worse quality, and showed a couple. The woman was young and pretty, with lots of curly hair. They looked as if they were at a party. “The guy, Quentin Drake, was killed in broad daylight on a street in Denver. Quentin and his wife, Ruby, lived in a trailer in Golden.”

“Ruby Drake?” That name was familiar. “Can you find out any more about them? About him?” I stared at the picture of the couple. “I’ve seen this woman somewhere.”

“Preheat the oven to three-fifty for me, would you please, wife? You’re not going hauling down to Golden to interview a widow.”

I snapped the oven thermostat for him and slipped the pictures back in the envelope. Then I rolled out my newest dough experiment and fit it into a pie pan. “So, what do you know about this victim? Any points of comparison with the Jerk?”

“Quentin Drake was a computer geek for an engineering company before he got laid off. I don’t know about her. You’re not going after this guy’s killer, Goldy.”

I carefully stirred the strawberries into the sugar mixture and tried to sound nonchalant. “I know, I know. I’m just looking for a link.”

We worked in companionable silence for a while. I carefully placed the pie in the oven, taking care not to jiggle Tom’s brownie pan. He was washing the bespattered bowl and beaters and I was wiping the counters when Arch made one of his noiseless entries into the kitchen.

“I have something else to tell you,” he began. When Arch had Tom’s and my attention, he crossed his arms and looked at the floor. “I just don’t want to get this guy into trouble. I mean, he’s old. I can’t imagine he would hurt anyone. I don’t think he would want to hurt me.”

Tom used his best interrogation technique when a suspect began to talk: Say nothing. Reluctantly, I followed his lead.

Arch let out a deep breath. “Todd and I figured out who’s been following me. We tag-teamed our watch at Todd’s house. The car was there, with the guy inside. I used Todd’s telescope to see who it was.” Arch’s brow furrowed above his glasses. “Why would Ted Vikarios be stalking me?”

“Ted Vikarios?” I repeated. I pictured Ted standing, tall and charismatic, at the microphone in the Roundhouse.

“Ted Vikarios?” Tom repeated. “You mean the guy you said gave the long-winded speech at the lunch? Who had the argument with Korman? The one whose wife got ridiculed by the mean women? What’s his background?”

“He’s a former preacher. And a medical doctor.” I recounted the history of Albert and Ted being co–department heads for ob-gyn at Southwest, and how they’d gotten religion. They’d gone their separate ways: the Kerrs to England for seminary and then Qatar for missionary work, the Vikarioses to fame, fortune, and, ultimately, ruin.

“Ruin?” Tom asked.

They’d…had a scandal, I said, with a meaningful look at Tom that said sex.

“Wait,” interjected Arch. “Excuse me, didn’t mean to interrupt. But I’m supposed to call Todd about this birthday party on Saturday. So…does something smell like brownies?”

Tom smiled. “If it looks like chocolate and smells like chocolate, then there’s a pretty good chance that it is chocolate. Thirty minutes’ cooking time. Two hours to cool, if we’re being sticklers. Which we aren’t.”

“Great!” Arch headed toward the kitchen door, his conscience clear, his appetite set. “Call me if you figure out what’s going on!”

“Tom,” I said softly, after Arch was gone. “I may be beginning to see something.” If it looks like a payoff and smells like a payoff, Nan had said, maybe it is a payoff. “Remember I was telling you about the Vikarioses’ ruin?”

He nodded, and I gave him a brief account of the scandal concerning Talitha Vikarios and her out-of-wedlock child by Albert Kerr. The papers had gorged on the fact that Ted Vikarios, a man who made boxed tape sets called Victory over Sin, had a daughter who’d been living in a commune. And then Nan Watkins had told me Talitha was dead.

“If Ted Vikarios and John Richard weren’t arguing about money after the funeral lunch, what were they arguing about?” I wondered aloud. “And most puzzling of all, why would Ted be stalking Arch?”

Tom’s face was understanding as he reached for a squeegee and began scrubbing. “Sometimes if I just rejuggle all the pieces in a homicide, I come up with an answer.”

But the words were not even out of his mouth before I knew. I said, “Albert Kerr had mumps when he was a teenager.”

“And that’s important because…”

I felt so low, all of a sudden. I couldn’t even say the words. The kitchen spun around, and Tom’s soapy hands grabbed me.

“Miss Goldy! What’s wrong?” He eased me into a kitchen chair, then nabbed a cotton towel and filled it with ice. With great gentleness, he held it to my forehead. He whispered, “Don’t try to talk.”

“It’s okay.” In my mind’s eye, I saw the photo of that dear, sweet candy striper as she hugged Arch and held him close. I remembered Talitha Vikarios even better than I had before. She’d been wonderfully attentive, she’d doted on the infant Arch. You’re so lucky, Mrs. Korman! I want to have a family someday, too! If I had a family, I wouldn’t let anything destroy it!

Talitha Vikarios had had one other person she’d adored, though. And she’d been weepy, too, as she held Arch. Inexplicably weepy.

I gazed into Tom’s green eyes. “When a teenage male gets the mumps, it usually renders him sterile. Which explains why Albert and Holly Kerr didn’t have any children. When Talitha Vikarios told her parents that Albert Kerr was the father of her child, she was lying.”

“Whoa. Back up. So Talitha took off to have the child in some commune?”

“Yes. My bet is that when she was discovered by the media, she told what she thought was a white lie. Albert Kerr was far away, and couldn’t be affected. Plus, while the Kerrs were overseas, there would be no way for Ted and Ginger to know that Albert had had the mumps when he was a kid. Holly told me about it when she was reminiscing.”

Tom said, “So Albert Kerr had had the mumps and was sterile. But the Vikarioses, Talitha included, didn’t know. Right? Why would she assign paternity to some guy who was sterile, and out of the country to boot?”

“Maybe I’m doing a quantum leap here, but I think she was protecting me. And Arch. Our family.”

“So…are you saying you think the father of her child was John Richard Korman?”

“I am. I think he seduced her the way he did most pretty young nurses. I think she made the disastrous mistake of falling in love with him. They had an affair, and she got pregnant. She left to have the child, rather than abort.”

“Oh, Miss G.”

And then I moaned. Tom gave me a quizzical look. I said, “Before the Kerr memorial lunch, Ted Vikarios came into the kitchen looking for something. He yelled, ‘Jesus God Almighty!’ and startled us. But he wasn’t calling on a supreme being, Tom. He was looking at Arch.” I clutched the table. “Arch must look a lot like his grandson.”

Tom groaned, but I held up my hand. I was thinking, trying to put it all together…or as much of it as I could guess at.

I went on. “Right then, when Ted saw Arch, I’ll bet he figured it out. No doubt he and Ginger had been puzzling over this for a long time.” I paused. “Let’s say, after the discovery of Talitha’s child, they believed Talitha’s story that Albert was the father. The Kerrs, long gone, probably denied it from afar, in a flurry of correspondence. But let’s say Talitha stuck to her story…and it looks as if she stayed in the Utah commune, too. So the Vikarioses had no relationship with their child or their grandchild, no money because their tape empire had failed, and no more friendship with the Kerrs.”

Tom said, “I’m following you. But how do the Vikarioses end up in a country-club condo in Aspen Meadow?”

I said, “Holly Kerr’s husband was terminally ill with cancer. She’d just inherited millions, but the money couldn’t help her husband. So maybe she forgave the Vikarioses for suspecting Albert. She hated the stories she heard from friends, about how the Vikarioses were suffering. And she wanted to reconcile with them before her husband died. So she started sending them a stipend. The Vikarioses were grateful, but they were still left with the mystery of who had fathered their grandchild and ruined their lives—”

Wait a minute. My kitchen shears had been stolen, and John Richard’s hair had been clipped after he was dead. So Arch thought Ted Vikarios was an old man who wouldn’t harm anybody? Had Ted demanded the truth from John Richard outside the Roundhouse? Had he said, “Are you the man who impregnated my unmarried daughter? Are you the man who ruined our lives?”

I said softly, “Ted Vikarios could have killed the Jerk and then cut a swatch of hair for a paternity test.”

“Now, Goldy, that is reaching—”

“I need to make a call.” I tapped keys to pull up the address book on my computer and scrolled to Priscilla Throckbottom’s number. What do you know, she had given me both her home and cell-phone numbers. It was only half-past eight, so with any luck…

“Priscilla?” I said breathlessly when she answered her cell. “It’s Goldy Schulz.”

“I’m at the country club,” Priscilla announced excitedly. “We’re all still here, all still talking about Courtney MacEwan’s arrest!”

“Courtney was arrested?”

“I saw the police come myself. We all did! They took her away!”

“In handcuffs, Priscilla? Did they read her her rights? Or did she just agree to go in for questioning—”

Priscilla’s tone changed. “Is this why you’re calling me when I’m entertaining friends at the country club?” Clearly, she wasn’t going to allow someone, especially a caterer, to water down her story. “You called to ask questions about Courtney MacEwan? Or do you have something else on your mind?”

I took a deep breath, and smelled smoke. It was sweet, and it was…billowing out of our oven. “Just a sec, Priscilla!” I put down the phone and looked around wildly for pot holders. When I pulled out the pie, it was a steaming, gurgling mess. Hot strawberry goo dripped relentlessly from the pie-plate rim. A quart of red lava had already bubbled onto the bottom of the oven, where it was blackening into a smoking island. Tom grabbed his own pair of pot holders and helped me ease the pie onto a rack.

“Goldy?” Priscilla’s voice called from the counter.

“Coming, coming!” I called. I’d made dozens of fruit pies. What had I done wrong?

“Goldy! I’m a busy woman, you know!”

Tom waved for me to return to the phone.

“Sorry about that, Priscilla. Ah…remember this morning, when you and the committee were talking about the Vikarioses?”

“I don’t remember. Is this going to take long?”

“Priscilla,” I stage-whispered, “I could keep you posted on Courtney’s status.” Tom stopped wiping up the mess and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What the charges are, who her lawyer is, that kind of thing.”

“Well, then.” I could hear Priscilla salivating through the phone line. “All right, Goldy, so. What were you wondering about the Vikarioses?”

“Remember when the committee was discussing their daughter? The one with the child? I, uh, heard she died. The Vikarioses’ daughter, that is.”

“She did,” Priscilla replied crisply. “Talitha. Last month, in Moab, Utah. A truck accident, was the story I got. Somebody cut off a pickup, which then swerved into the oncoming lane and hit Talitha.”

“Do you…know what happened to the child? Talitha’s child, that is?”

Priscilla snorted. “Ted and Ginger are taking care of the boy. He was hurt in the accident, and he doesn’t have any other family, of course. I think it’s a terrible idea. They’re too old to have children.” She inhaled. “Is that all, Goldy?”

“Um, yes. Thank you.”

She lowered her voice. “When will you know about Courtney? One of the women here said Courtney precipitated her husband’s heart attack by making sure he was having sex with that flight attendant before she stalked into their bedroom and surprised them. That’s how she ended up inheriting all that money that she lavished on your worthless ex-husband.”

I smiled in spite of myself. With Courtney, or with John Richard, nothing surprised me. “As soon as I know anything, I’ll call you.”

“By the way, I’m doing the flowers for your ex-husband’s memorial service. That’s one thing the garden club can’t take away from me. That, and the planting we’ll be doing up in the preserve, if they can ever manage to put out the fire! Did you hear they think some hikers are trapped back there?”

I told her that I had not heard that, then signed off. I asked Tom if he had picked up on a story about the blaze threatening some hikers in the preserve. He cocked a bushy eyebrow and replied that this sounded like more horse manure from Priscilla Throckbottom. Meanwhile, bless him, he had cleaned up the entire pie mess. His brownies had managed to bake alongside the strawberry volcano and were now cooling as he sliced his super-sub sandwich. Arch, sensing that a meal was imminent, had slipped back into the kitchen. To my astonishment, he washed his hands and began setting the table without being asked. The next time I got a big tip, it was going to Arch.

Arch pushed his glasses up his nose, peered around, and sniffed. “Did something burn?”

“It’s okay, hon,” I said.

“Good, ’cuz I’m starving.”

But I wasn’t. In fact, I was desperate to do something else altogether.

“Guys,” I said to Tom and Arch, “I want to go over to the Vikarioses. Now.”

It was the second time that evening that Tom laughed. “Forget it!”

“Mom,” Arch pleaded, “I’m so hungry.”

“Eat,” Tom urged Arch. “Your mother’s hallucinating and will snap out of it soon.”

“Tom, I want to go and I want to go now. If you aren’t going to come with me, then I’m going alone.”

“What happened to your promise not to go into dangerous situations?”

“You can come. And bring a gun.”

Tom put down the knife, then leaned forward on his knuckles. “I’d like to keep my job, thanks. You want, I’ll call the department and Blackridge and Reilly can go over there tomorrow.” When Arch shuffled into the walk-in in search of lemonade, Tom whispered to me, “And anyway, what would you say to Ted Vikarios once you got there?” He brought his voice up an octave to mimic mine. “Ted, did you kill my ex-husband? Could you please wait here while I call the cops?”

“No,” I said calmly. “I’d say we were grieving and we needed pastoral care. We heard he was a pastor, and we’d like to come in and talk.”

“Who is we, white woman?”

Arch had returned and was munching on a large wedge of sandwich. “If you guys go, ask Mr. Vikarios why he’s been following me.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Arch home alone if Tom and I both went. But I truly had no idea what we might be encountering at the Vikarios condo. I wavered. Maybe this idea really was foolhardy.

“All right, all right,” Tom said, his voice resigned. “Let me go call Boyd. I’ll ask him to come here and stay with Arch.”

Thirty minutes later, with Boyd and Arch scooping out vanilla ice cream to make enormous brownies à la mode, I followed Tom to his sedan. My husband was wearing a brown corduroy jacket, which I hoped concealed a shoulder holster, and he was holding a pair of high-powered binoculars. Once we were buckled in, Tom said, “We are not getting out of this car when we get there. I’m parking up on the road and then the two of us are going to see if we can spot anything suspicious. Then we’ll make a decision.” He held up his key chain. “We’re not going anywhere until you promise not to go crazy on me.”

“I promise.” Sheesh! “Before you can say tiddlywinks, we’ll be back home digging into your sandwich.”

We chugged down toward Main Street. Tom said, “I’d rather be back home, thank you very much. On such a beautiful night, I’d rather be working with and devouring food—thank you very much. This very minute, you and Arch and I could be eating that sandwich on our deck, by the light of the pearly moon, instead of traipsing around on a wild-goose chase—”

At the light on Main Street—there was only one, so locals just referred to it as “the light”—Tom eased the sedan to a stop. I turned to him.

“What did you say, Tom?”

“Goose chase. Eat outside. Deck. All of the above.”

“Be serious for a second. Something about the pearly moon.”

The light turned green; Tom accelerated. “All right then. How’s ghostly moon?”

I was reaching for a memory. I’d seen something. Something as luminous as a ghost. Something that hadn’t belonged where I’d seen it.

“The Vikarioses don’t live far from John Richard’s rental. Could you just swing by there?” I begged. “I think I dropped something. In the street, not at the house.”

Tom shook his head. “It’s a good thing I’m crazy about you, Miss G. Then again, maybe I’m just plain crazy.”

The moonlight cast a pale light over the granite-and-moss rock pillars flanking the entryway to the country-club area. We passed a few cars—luckily, all the gapers had left their decks—and within moments were crunching over the gravel washout on Stoneberry. The evergreens, aspens, and Alpine roses ringing the cul-de-sac shrouded the pavement in darkness. When we stopped in front of the rental, Tom drew out a Maglite from the floor of the backseat. He held it in his lap for a moment, as if unsure if he should give it to me.

“What did you drop?” he wanted to know.

“A piece of jewelry. Several pieces of jewelry. They’ll just take a sec to find, if they’re still there.”

“You don’t wear jewelry, Miss G.”

“Are you going to give me the light or not?”

When I slid out of the front seat, I snapped on the Maglite and tried to remember exactly where I’d seen what Tom is always telling his investigators to look for: something out of place. The smoke seemed to have dissipated, thank God, and the mountain breeze was sweet as sugar. Alpine roses by the curb bobbed to and fro. I trod gingerly over the asphalt and lustrous flood of gravel, sweeping the Mag as I went.

And then I saw them: a spill of pearls glowing in the moonlight, among a fall of creamy rose petals. I directed the flashlight’s pool of light to where the wash of tiny, uneven stones had deposited the oyster’s perfect nuggets. I reached down and picked them up, one by one. When they were securely in my pocket, I turned off the flashlight and returned to the sedan.

Maybe they were nothing. Maybe they were something. Should I bother Blackridge and Reilly again?

If the pearls were significant, there was a logical explanation as to why the crime-scene investigators hadn’t found them. Everything—grass, trees, pavement—had been coated with dust when I’d discovered John Richard on Tuesday. The pearls would have been easy to miss. But that night the hailstorm had bathed away the dust. Gravity and a stream of dirt had swept the pearls out of John Richard’s yard and into the street, where anyone looking could have found them.

19

So they’re not yours,” Tom said. “What good will a handful of pearls do you? Scratch that. What good will pearls do the investigation?”

“It depends on what kind of pearls they are. Pearls from the Persian Gulf aren’t cultured. Cultured pearls, which are the great majority of the pearls sold in this country, usually come from Japan.”

“And you’re going to tell me how you know this, right?”

I gave him a sheepish smile. “I grew up as a middle-class girl in New Jersey, and then went to a girls’ boarding school. You don’t think I know from pearls? On the way home, we can drop some of them at Front Range Jewelry, leave the owner a note.”

“Humor me. Your theory is that if Courtney’s the killer, they would be…what?”

“Cultured. But if we’re looking at, say, Ginger Vikarios, it could be something else together. Holly Kerr and Ginger Vikarios are inseparable, now that they’ve reconciled. Ginger Vikarios’s life was ruined by her daughter having a child out of wedlock. And if my theory, and Ted’s theory, is that the Vikarioses just discovered that the Jerk impregnated their daughter, then that certainly would be a motive for murdering him.”

“So…how do the pearls fit in?”

I sighed. “If the pearls are from the Persian Gulf, then Holly could have given them to Ginger! Holly has more pearls in her house than Tiffany’s.”

Tom chuckled and started the car. “Thin, Goldy. Wafer thin.”

“I don’t know from wafers.”

“Clearly. But you’re going to have to tell the detectives investigating the case about finding the pearls. You might not want to share these theories, though.”

“You can tell Boyd tomorrow. I don’t want the cops to know I was here. Now can we please make our other stop?”

He grunted assent and pulled out his spiral notebook. He looked up the address he’d jotted down and eased the sedan around the Stoneberry dead end. It was a good thing, too, because lights had begun to wink on in the houses rimming the cul-de-sac. Several faces appeared at windows.

I certainly didn’t blame the Stoneberry residents for being nervous. Their neighbor had been murdered and his house had been vandalized. I just didn’t want these folks to call the sheriff’s department to come out and check on a car belonging to an investigator from…the sheriff’s department.

When we had wound down one street and then another—the concept of blocks was foreign to Aspen Meadow—Tom drew to a stop under a streetlight. The wind rustled the aspens close by as Tom peered up at the sign for Club Drive. When he turned right, the smell of fire smoke drifted into the car. I exhaled, suddenly thankful that Boyd was staying with Arch.

The country-club condominiums had been built along an embankment that sloped down from Club Drive. Facing east, the condos could not boast the coveted view of the mountains, but some of them overlooked the golf course, and their clever design as multi-storied duplexes gave them the look of large, mountain-style houses. Like the clubhouse itself, their beige exteriors—no change of color allowed—and cedar-shake-shingle roofs screamed Upscale Mountain-Resort Holiday Inn, but for retirees who wanted proximity to the clubhouse, they were perfect.

When Tom slowed to read mailbox numbers, I wondered how, exactly, the rift between the Vikarioses and the Kerrs, not to mention between the Vikarios parents and their daughter, Talitha, had been healed. Had Ginger written an angry letter to Holly, Your husband impregnated our daughter out of wedlock, and now we’re ruined? Or had Ginger been so dumbfounded by Talitha’s claim that she’d been embarrassed even to ask Holly if it could be true? Holly must have heard the story from someone. Knowing that Albert couldn’t have fathered Talitha’s child, Holly’s forgiveness and generosity toward her old friends—a club condo alone cost half a mil—didn’t look like a payoff at all, no matter what Nan Watkins said. It looked like true charity—all the more so because it wasn’t widely known.

Tom pulled up to a dark driveway, turned off the lights, and cut the motor. My palms were damp. Tom lifted the binocs and focused. Then he moved them slowly until he stopped and refocused. He waited for what seemed like a very long time, but probably wasn’t more than five minutes.

“Bingo.”

“What?” I demanded. “Show me!”

He pointed to the northernmost of a set of three duplexes, then handed me the binoculars. “Condo on the left of the far one. Lower level. Looks like a family room. Shades are up, windows open, TV on.”

As I’d learned on an ill-fated birding expedition, I wasn’t too adept with binoculars. Still, after a few minutes I was able to make out Ginger, clad in a dark top and pants, sitting in a rocking chair. Ted was perched on a couch directly across from a brightly lit color television. On a coffee table in front of him, I could just make out…three glasses? My fingers began to hurt. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.

“I’m not seeing,” I said. “Oh God.”

Just then, a young teenager—maybe fourteen—strode into the room. He was holding what looked like a bowl of popcorn. Ted and Ginger both said something to him, and the teenager laughed. He had toast-brown hair, glasses, and a thin face.

He was the boy I’d seen in town, of course. Once I’d seen him beside a herd of elk and the other time in front of Town Taffy. He looked just like Arch.

“That threesome doesn’t look as if they harbor murder in their hearts,” Tom observed. “Wouldn’t you say? Pearls or no pearls? Victim’s hair clipped or not? Of course, I’ve been fooled by criminals before. But if one of them was a killer, you’d think they’d at least close the shades.”

I put down the binoculars. “Then why is Ted following Arch?”

“Because his daughter’s dead and he wants to know the piece of her history that’s missing? Because he wants to fill in a piece of his grandson’s history? Had enough?”

“So what’s your theory on John Richard’s murder?”

Tom tapped the dashboard. “I don’t have one yet. We’re missing something. Or some things. We don’t have too few clues. We’ve got too damn many.”

“Right.” Suddenly, I felt dejected. As Tom turned on the car and reversed onto the shoulder, I asked, “So, now what? Do you think Reilly and Blackridge will want to talk to the Vikarioses?”

“Yeah, I do. Another job we can foist off on Boyd. He’s going to be thrilled. So are Blackridge and Reilly. And if this gets out, it’s going to be a mess, even if the Mountain Journal doesn’t have a gossip columnist anymore. I can see the headline now: ‘Who Killed Love Child’s Father?’ ”

“Oh my God.” My thoughts flew to Arch. How would he handle such a thing? The answer was that he wouldn’t. Nor would Talitha’s son. “Is there any way to investigate this secretly? There’s got to be.”

Tom took a deep breath. “I’ll tell Boyd to tell the detectives what our suspicions are, but to keep it extra quiet. How’s that?”

I didn’t feel very reassured. Somehow I’d become mixed into this stew of folks with their secrets, their pain, and their rage, and I felt as if I was sinking. Or maybe that was my exhaustion. The day had been long, too long, and I was desperate for food and bed. Tom drove me to the jewelry store and handed me a paper evidence bag from his kit in the trunk. I wrote the jewelry-store owner a note, put it, along with the pearls, into the bag, and shoved the whole thing through his mail slot. I couldn’t wait to get home.

But unwelcome news awaited us there. Arch was ensconced in the living room watching a TV show, but Boyd lowered his voice anyway. The medical examiner had completed his preliminary report, Boyd told us. It looked as if Cecelia Brisbane had been strangled.

The next morning, Friday, the tenth of June, dawned with a disconcerting gray haze hanging in the air. The smell of smoke was so strong that I made sure all the windows were closed. I even plugged in some fans to keep the air circulating. Like most mountain homes, we had no air-conditioning, which was probably just as well. The prospect of chilled, smoky air did not thrill me.

Scout and Jake went out with reluctance. They both seemed nervous, sniffing the air and darting tentatively around the backyard. After a few moments, both were pawing to come back in. Don’t tell me animals are unaware of approaching fire.

And it was drawing near. What I’d thought was my own voice, wailing in my dreams as I confronted a dead ex-husband over and over, was actually sirens. According to the TV news, the fire in the westernmost, remotest section of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve had bloomed overnight from eleven hundred acres to two thousand. The fire was spreading faster than they could contain it. Aspen Meadow firefighters had called on Denver departments to send up volunteers. Worst of all, a pair of hikers was missing.

When I ventured outside to retrieve Jake’s water dish, I was greeted by a loud roar from overhead. It was a huge cargo plane, bearing its load of orange fire retardant toward the thick evergreen forests of the preserve. I shuddered.

Blackridge and Reilly were due to pick up Arch at half-past eight, to go to the bank in Spruce and check out the contents of the safety-deposit box. The only thing I had to look forward to was the memorial service for John Richard, which was set to start at one o’clock. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t looking forward to that at all.

I took a deep breath but only smelled more smoke. I glanced around the kitchen, unsure of what to do with myself. The Furman County Sheriff’s Department’s new emergency reverse-calling mechanism had been widely touted as a foolproof mode of alerting residents to the need for evacuation. Our phones would ring if we were in danger, and we’d be given an hour to pack up our stuff and get out. How much of your life could you pack up in an hour? Your loved ones, your animals, maybe a few photographs. That was it.

The phone rang as I was making my usual double-shot espresso. The demitasse cup I’d been holding slipped away and shattered to smithereens. This was emphatically not because I’d had too much caffeine—in fact, I hadn’t had any yet. I grabbed the phone, sure it was a recorded message telling us to get out.

“Goldy Schulz here,” I said, my voice shaky.

“I know you’re not using caller ID if you’re answering like that,” Marla said.

“You’re up early, girlfriend. I thought you were the sheriff’s department, telling me to round up our crew and get out.”

“Listen up. I have two problems. One is that the smoky air makes it impossible for me to sleep. The other is that the Jerk’s service is today. Remember you asked me to invite Sandee to come with us? Well, I did.”

“I know. She called me.”

“Well, anyway, I don’t want to be alone right now.”

I smiled. “Come on over.”

“Are you making something yummy?”

“This instant, I am starting to prepare whatever you would like.”

“Good. Because I never got a chance to taste what I’m looking at in the Mountain Journal.”

My heart plummeted. I didn’t remember submitting a recipe to the Journal, and anyway, this wasn’t the day for their food page. “What is it?”

“Why it’s you, naughty girlfriend, plastering a strawberry-cream pie onto the face of Roger Mannis, the district health inspector.” I groaned. “You at least could have whacked him with lima bean soup or raw scallops. Why ruin a yummy pie?”

“I lost my head. Just come over, will you?”

She giggled and hung up.

Once I’d made myself a new espresso, I reached for butter-flavored shortening to try a new variation on my crust recipe. I was trying my pie again, but this time in a deep dish so we wouldn’t have another eruption of Mount Saint Strawberry.

Half an hour later, I had placed the new pie on a cookie sheet and was just sliding it into the oven when the doorbell rang. Oh good, Marla. But it wasn’t my friend. Reilly and Blackridge stood on our porch wearing wraparound sunglasses and dark suits. They looked like the Blues Brothers. Was their attire a joke? Knowing them, it wasn’t.

My discomfort showed in my stiff voice as I invited the detectives into the living room. But they were acting very polite, even deferential. I wondered how they felt about the progress of the investigation. I was curious to know how the questioning of Courtney MacEwan had gone. And I was very curious to know if they’d found anything in Cecelia Brisbane’s files, or if they’d come up with a theory as to who had strangled her, and why. But I refrained. I doubted the cops’ newfound civility extended to coughing up answers to my questions.

“Big man upstairs?” Blackridge asked.

“Yes,” I replied. The rushing sound of shower water was clearly audible. “Let me go roust my son. That’s who you’re here for, isn’t it?” Blackridge nodded, and I reluctantly went on: “You’ve heard this rumor about him possibly having a half brother?” I got another assent…and was that a look of sympathy melting Blackridge’s usually hard eyes? “I’d be very grateful,” I said hesitantly, “if you wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Arch.”

Reilly exhaled. “We wouldn’t, ma’am. We never would.”

I thanked them and set off up the stairs, where I was surprised to see a freshly showered, tired-looking Arch sitting on his bed. He was neatly dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt. His right hand was closed in a fist, undoubtedly holding the key.

“You’re all ready?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. “Did you set your alarm?”

He straightened his glasses with his free hand. “Yeah. I’m real curious about what Dad was doing.”

I hugged my sides and made my voice low. “Remember we have the service today, hon?”

His look became guarded. “I know. One o’clock. I’ll be ready at half-past twelve, if you want.”

We agreed, and he took off with the detectives for Spruce. I checked on Tom, who was still sleeping. I was thankful that the sheriff’s department had told my husband to take all the time he needed to help me during this bad time. The department wanted their premier investigator back in top form, not worried about his hapless wife.

An unaccountable uneasiness seized me as I made my way back to the kitchen. Something was bothering me, but what was it? This unsolved question, who had killed John Richard, hung like the smoky haze that now enveloped the evergreens and aspens outside. The investigation had produced plenty of suspects—the Vikarioses, Courtney MacEwan, Lana Della Robbia and Dannyboy, whom I was sure had been the suppliers of the cash to be laundered, even though the investigators had yet to prove it. I groaned.

Tom had said that when an investigation stalled, he went over every bit of information he’d already gathered. So I booted up my computer and reloaded the espresso machine. Five minutes later, I was sipping another double shot, this time mixed with half-and-half and poured over ice, as I scrolled through my notes.

When Marla ding-donged our bell and banged on the door—she always wanted you to hurry up and let her in—I hadn’t come up with any new theories. Marla breezed through the door, clad in a pink pantsuit. She pointed to my iced drink.

“That stuff’ll kill you. Fix me one, will you?”

I smiled and followed her to the kitchen.

“My doctor says I should drink herb tea. I told him if I chugged down herb tea first thing in the morning, I’d puke.” Marla smiled when I handed her the latte. She sipped, nodded approvingly, and lifted her chin toward the computer. “What’re you doing?”

“Reading through my file on John Richard. Trying to see what I missed.” I brought her up-to-date on the case, including the shot-up pink tennis ball, the pearls, and the possibility that the Jerk had fathered a child by the former candy striper Talitha Vikarios. Marla whistled.

“I heard about Courtney being picked up for questioning,” she said. “I wonder what she’ll tell the cops, if anything.”

“Ah. While we’re on the topic of wondering, I want to show you something.” I put down my coffee and handed her the pictures from Tom’s envelope. “Does someone look familiar here?”

“I’ve never seen the guy,” she said immediately. “The woman. I know her. Who is she?”

“Ruby Drake.”

“Ruby, ruby. Red hair.” Marla tapped the photo. “Didn’t recognize her right away. I mean, not with her clothes on. She was at the Rainbow when we went down there. Don’t you remember, she was dancing near us, with a red light? It made her hair look almost purple. I thought she’d been one of the Jerk’s girlfriends, remember?”

“And she sat with us and said she hated the Jerk. Now the firearms examiner says Ruby’s husband, that guy you’ve never seen, was shot with the same gun that killed John Richard.”

“Oh, dear, oh dear. Does Tom know about this?”

“No, but I’ll tell him. He’s asleep.” I sighed and stared at my computer. “I just…feel as if I’m missing something else. Say John Richard was laundering money; say it was from the strip club. Even if you tortured him by shooting him in the genitals to tell you where the money was, and even if he wouldn’t tell you, why shoot him right in his garage, instead of when he was strolling along a sidewalk somewhere? Why use a homemade silencer and then drop it in the street?”

I sipped my coffee and frowned. “Whoa.” I put down my coffee and tapped keys, then I read the screen. “Here we go. The letter about the rape. It was sent to Cecelia Brisbane. Why? The day after the Jerk was killed, the note was delivered to me. And then, the day after that, Cecelia turned up dead.”

“It’s weird, all right.” Marla drained her iced latte glass. “Who do you think could help us figure it out?”

“Who would know about the history of Southwest Hospital?” After a moment, I answered my own question. “Nan Watkins. While Tom alerts the department to check out the strip club again, maybe you and I could go visit her.”

Marla strode to the sink and rinsed her glass. “Let’s do it. I know she walks around the lake every morning. Maybe we can catch her.”

“Hold on.” Would Tom count this as a dangerous situation? “You don’t suppose Nan could pull anything on us, do you?”

“Are you asking if a woman in her late sixties, who looks and walks like a large rodent, is going to karate-chop the two of us? The answer is no. Let’s go.”

Marla insisted on taking her Mercedes, as Nan might recognize my van and skedaddle before we could question her. Main Street looked strangely deserted, the stores swallowed in the murky cloud of fire smoke. The lake had turned an ominous, opaque gray, and I doubted we’d see any walkers.

But I was wrong. Marla and I had been huffing along the lake path for no more than ten minutes when we encountered Nan Watkins going in the opposite direction. She was striding along, pumping her arms vigorously. She looked like a short, pear-shaped, gray-haired drum majorette.

“Stop!” Marla called, out of breath. “Nan! I’m dying. Cardiac arrest.”

“Really?” Nan asked, all concern. She halted abruptly on the dirt path and backtracked to us. Her cheeks flamed from exertion, and she was even puffing a bit, which made me feel marginally better.

“No, not really,” Marla retorted. “But our ex-husband is being buried today, and there’s something we have to know before we put him to rest.”

“Something you have to know?” she snapped. “I thought you needed me for a health problem!”

“No,” Marla said, her hands on her hips, suddenly all business. “We need to know the name of the teenage girl he raped at Southwest Hospital.”

“What?” Nan looked nonplussed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She licked her lips and looked at the ground.

“Won’t work, Nan,” Marla replied. “The cops have a note the victim wrote to Cecelia Brisbane. If you don’t tell us who it is, we’re going to the sheriff’s department and have them subpoena the information from you.”

“You can’t!” Nan sputtered. “They can’t!”

Marla said, “Wanna bet?”

“Wait,” I said. I looked straight into Nan’s brown eyes. “Nan, my son needs closure on the death of his father. Please. If this woman or someone close to her shot John Richard, it would help us all put our lives back together if we could find that person and get them arrested. Please help us. Otherwise, this person could go over the edge and kill more people.”

“She couldn’t have done this,” Nan whispered. There was a bench nearby where fishermen sometimes sat as they tended their lines. Nan moved over to it and sat down. She said, “I hate remembering this. Talking about it. Nobody knows about it but me, and I failed.”

“You failed?” I asked gently.

“I failed her,” Nan said.

“Is the woman alive?” I asked.

“I think so.” Nan fixed her eyes on the dark nimbus hanging over the lake. “This all happened, oh, eight years ago? Anyway, I heard she had left town to pursue other endeavors, far away.”

“She was from Aspen Meadow?” I asked. Nan nodded.

“What endeavors did she go pursue?” Marla demanded.

“It…doesn’t matter. Anyway, she’s far away from here and unlikely to come back.” Nan was quiet for so long I thought she’d changed her mind about telling us. Then she let out a resigned sigh. “She was fourteen.” Nan’s voice was just above a whisper. “She was in the hospital for a bacterial infection, which is extremely unusual for a woman so young.” Nan explained, “You may not know that bacterial infections are often transferred from men to women. Anyway, she was very pretty and voluptuous. Dr. Korman…was making jokes about her, wondering aloud what she could have been up to that would have brought on the infection.”

I shook my head. So far, so typical.

“He…he came in one night when it wasn’t his shift. I thought he’d been drinking. He disappeared into the young woman’s room. She had a single because her family had money. A few minutes later, he brought her out and took her into an exam room. I asked him if he needed me to be with him, and he said no, absolutely not. Of course, back then nurses were always required to be in the room during a gynecological exam. So I…I figured he’d taken her in for a bandage or an injection…something. I never thought….” Again Nan lapsed into silence.

“What happened?” I prodded, keeping my voice low.

Nan lifted her chin and closed her eyes. “He left the room about twenty minutes later. You know”—she opened her eyes and gave us an immensely sad look—“I thought I heard him laughing to himself. She, the patient, didn’t come out. Then I heard her crying, so I raced down there. She was crying, and there was semen…oh God.” Nan swallowed, and tears spilled out of her eyes. “He had raped her in the stirrups. And then he’d told her to go back to her room and keep her mouth shut.”

“You didn’t report him?” Marla asked.

Nan’s expression and voice became bitter. “He was a doctor. He would have denied everything. And I can assure you, in those days, there would have been no punishment. I’m not even sure there would be any punishment today.” She paused. “The only person who would have lost her job would have been me.”

Marla and I exchanged a glance. I mumbled, “She’s probably right.”

“I know I’m right,” Nan snapped. “Later, I kept wondering why our patient didn’t scream when Dr. Korman first…started in on her.” Nan swallowed. “I think I know now. The rumor is that…her father…had abused her, too. I heard this later. It would explain the infection, anyway.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Who was it?”

Nan gave me a sour look. “Brisbane. As in Walter Brisbane, the owner of the Mountain Journal. You know? Whose wife Cecelia could gossip about everything else because she couldn’t face the truth. And now Cecelia is dead, too.”

“Where is the Brisbane daughter now?”

“I don’t know. Her name was Alex. Alex Brisbane.” Nan took a deep breath. “Last I heard, she was in the navy, far away.”

20

We escorted Nan to her car. Spilling her guts had shaken her up, and she wasn’t in the mood for walking anymore. I didn’t blame her.

“Alex?” Marla repeated to me, incredulous. “That’s what they called her. I don’t have her in my database, that’s for sure.”

“It wouldn’t be anything he’d brag about, I don’t think. Not once he got sober.”

We climbed into the Mercedes. Marla revved the engine and grunted. “So, did you ever know Alex Brisbane?”

I shook my head. “Still, it’s a puzzle. Except for Cecelia, I don’t know of anyone even related to Alex. Maybe Cecelia’s remorse overtook her and she tried to hang herself. That would explain the ligature marks on her neck. When that failed, she drove into the lake.”

“And this Alex?”

“I saw a picture of her at Cecelia’s house. It’s at the library, too. Alex was in Greece.”

“In Grease?” Marla cried. “The Denver producers closed that show two years ago.”

“Greece like the country, silly.”

“Talking about grease makes me hungry for lunch,” Marla countered. “We’ve got to eat before the Jerk’s memorial service. Let’s go.”

At home, Tom and Arch were talking in the kitchen. Tom was in an unusually good mood, asking Arch questions while puttering around the kitchen. He had potatoes boiling on the stove—for potato salad, he said—and he was forming and seasoning large hamburgers from ground beef. Arch, sitting at a kitchen chair, looked shell-shocked. His mouth hung open and his glasses were skewed. What had they been talking about? And how was I going to tell Tom about Nan’s confession when Arch was around?

“Uh-oh,” Marla said, bustling up to Arch and giving him a kiss on the head. “Somebody doesn’t look very good.”

Arch took a deep breath and straightened his glasses. Tom stopped his food prep and flashed us a warning look.

“Here’s what happened,” Arch said, his voice dead. “The detectives found one hundred, eight thousand dollars in gold coins in the safety-deposit box. They took it down to the department.” Arch rubbed his cheeks. “So. Do you think somebody shot Dad for that money?”

“Honey,” I said softly, “I don’t know. You did the right thing, though, helping those detectives.”

Arch shook his head. “It didn’t feel like the right thing. Especially since I promised Dad I’d never tell.”

“Come on, Arch,” Tom said jovially. “Lunch in half an hour.”

“I can’t,” Arch said dismally. He raised his eyes to us. “I’m not mad at anybody. But I don’t want anything to eat, and I don’t want to…be with people. I just want to be by myself. Mom, I’m not trying to be rude. Could you just let me be alone until it’s time to go to church?”

“Sweetheart—”

“Mom. Please.” I nodded. He quietly turned and left the kitchen.

While Marla, Tom, and I ate the hamburgers, we told him about our talk with Nan Watkins. He left the table to put in a call to the department. It looked as if Nan would have to talk to the cops, after all. When Tom returned, he served us his hot potato salad, along with a spinach salad that he had tossed with thick, crispy pieces of bacon and a fresh sweet-sour dressing. For dessert, he cut us slices of deep-dish strawberry pie and topped each piece with mammoth scoops of vanilla ice cream.

“Thanks for the feast,” Marla declared, lifting a glass of water in salute, “celebrating the demise of one of the worst creeps who’s ever lived!”

The woman was incorrigible.

At a quarter-past twelve, Arch came down the stairs. He still looked green around the gills. I was consumed with guilt for enjoying a prefuneral banquet. Marla, Tom, and I hadn’t meant to rejoice over the Jerk’s passing, it had just happened. And we’d been ultra-quiet, in case Arch had decided to lie down. But I still felt bad.

Tom, looking devilishly handsome in a somber jacket and tie, drove Marla home (in her Mercedes!) so she could change into a black suit. We figured parking would be bad at St. Luke’s, so we were taking as few vehicles as possible. But Marla had flatly refused to arrive at church in Tom’s sedan, or, as she called it, “that disgusting old thing you call a vehicle.”

I’d promised to pick up Sandee for Marla, so Arch and I were taking the van. From the back of my closet, I pulled out a black silk dress that I’d bought to wear to a sheriff’s department dinner, with my pearls…agh!

The jeweler! In all the hubbub of getting Arch off to the bank, making a pie, reading my notes, and intercepting Nan Watkins at the lake, I’d completely forgotten about the pearls I’d picked up on Stoneberry.

“I’ll be waiting in the van,” Arch said as he headed out.

“Two minutes. Just getting bottles of water.” As soon as the door closed behind him, I tapped in the number for the jeweler. While I was put on hold, I scrambled with my free hand to find a canvas bag, into which I put two large bottles of artesian water. “Come on, come on,” I said into the phone. The clock indicated it was 12:20. I was due at Sandee’s at half-past twelve. Finally the jeweler clicked in.

“It’s Goldy Schulz. I was wondering about those pearls I left you!”

“Fake.” His voice was expressionless.

“Not real?” I cried, amazed. “Not genuine pearls?”

“Nope. Bye.”

A man of few words, was our town jeweler. I lugged the water-bottle bag out to the van and revved the engine. Then I tried not to count up all the worthless leads this investigation had engendered. This case was more of a dead end than Stoneberry itself.

Sandee Blue had returned to the condo she’d previously shared with Bobby. It was in a townhouse area very similar to the one at Aspen Meadow Country Club, only this one bordered Interstate 70 and overlooked Denver. I wondered how Sandee’s stripper dollars and Bobby’s music could enable them to live in such a nice place. But maybe the band made more money than one would suspect from listening to their music.

“Thanks for picking me up!” Sandee burbled as she teetered to the van in her black spike heels. Never one for conservative dress, Sandee wore a tight, low-cut black dress and sparkly jet jewelry. She’d teased her platinum hair up in front and then loosely pinned that section off her face. Two walls of long blond hair swung by her ears. She looked very fetching. I wondered if she was trolling for a wealthy new underwriter. No telling what Bobby’s reaction to that would be.

“So Bobby’s out of town?” I asked neutrally as I did a seven-point turn in her steep driveway.

“Nope!” she cried gaily. “He’s out fighting the fire. I don’t know why they call it the Aspen Meadow Volunteer Fire Department. If he didn’t get paid for fighting fires, he wouldn’t be able to afford his house!” She put her arm over the seat and turned to greet Arch. “Hey, buddy! Still playing hockey?”

“Aha,” I said quickly. “So you knew he wasn’t playing golf twice a week.”

“Uh-oh,” came Arch’s low voice from the back. I opened my eyes wide at Sandee, who had turned crimson.

“I wasn’t supposed to talk about it,” she mumbled. “John Richard told me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Really?” I said sourly. “How well did that work out?”

“Oh, Mom,” Arch interjected. “Leave her alone.”

“Sure,” I said. “Fine.”

Sandee turned back to Arch. “So! Did you get that new stick you wanted? Have you used it?”

“I did get it!” Arch exclaimed. “I’m using it for the first time tomorrow morning, at a hockey birthday party.”

“Cool! How’s Todd?”

I really didn’t begrudge Sandee’s and Arch’s friendship. In fact, I was glad for it. Before John Richard was incarcerated, he had largely ignored Arch during the weekly visits. Arch’s visits to John Richard’s house were often made more bearable by the presence of John Richard’s chatty, immature girlfriends. And now here was Sandee blabbing almost flirtatiously with Arch. At least it was diverting his attention from the upcoming service. Sandee might not be terribly intelligent, I thought grimly, but at least she was good at lifting a mood.

When we arrived at the church, the parking lot was not even half full. Had John Richard really been so disliked? He’d treated hundreds of patients in Aspen Meadow over the years his practice had been here. Would so few come to remember him? Fewer even than Albert Kerr, who had practiced only at Southwest, and that had been fourteen years ago?

That’s the problem with the arrogant, I thought as Arch, Sandee, and I scanned the small crowd for Marla and Tom. John Richard had thought he was much more powerful and popular than he actually was. Not to mention that over the past few years, he’d spent a good bit of his time behind bars. If his prison pals could have come, maybe the church would have filled up.

“You look very upset,” Father Pete said, coming up beside me. He touched my arm. “Are you all right?”

I signaled for Arch and Sandee to go on up to the pew from which Marla was waving madly. “I’m fine,” I said curtly. “It’s Arch I’m worried about.”

Father Pete let go of my arm. “I think your son is in better shape than you are. Goldy?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Thanks, Father Pete. I’m going to sit with my son now.” And I scuttled away.

In the few minutes before the service started, I scanned the crowd. Courtney was there, giving everyone her cold gimlet eyes. So she hadn’t been arrested after all. She wore a black dress that was somewhat more stylish than, but certainly as revealing as, Sandee’s. Instead of pearls, she wore a gold necklace, a strand of what looked like miniature tennis balls. Why did I get the feeling that both she and Sandee were trolling for cute young doctors? Unfortunately for them, 99 percent of John Richard’s doc buddies had abandoned him when he’d been convicted of assault. Not that they hadn’t known what he was like. They knew, because I’d told their wives. But getting caught and sent to jail—that was taboo.

“Goldy!” Marla whispered. “Look in the back. Recognize anybody?”

I turned slowly. Well, well. Holly Kerr was sitting with Ginger Vikarios. I didn’t know where Ted was. And it looked as if John Richard still had some loyal friends in the stripper community. Besides Sandee, there was Lana, who winked at me, Dannyboy the Lion-Maned, Ruby of the Dead Husband, and half a dozen other women whom I might have recognized if they’d taken off their clothes. Ruby Drake, I thought. Marla had thought Ruby and the Jerk were dating, and yet Ruby had told us she hated John Richard. Not only that, but the same gun had been used to kill her husband and the Jerk. Were the cops looking at her as a suspect? Should I?

Arch turned to see what we were looking at. His eyes bugged out at the sight of so many curvaceous women.

Tom stifled a laugh and said, “Hey, buddy, what are you going to give your friend for his birthday tomorrow?”

And then, finally, the music and talking ceased. Father Pete, as imposing as ever, preceded the coffin. I did not know the four men who were pallbearers, probably that 1 percent who’d stayed loyal to the Jerk. Their procession down the nave was slow and deliberate. I checked Arch: His face was very pale.

“I am the resurrection and the life,” Father Pete intoned. We all opened our service leaflets and began to read along with him. Arch dashed tears out of his eyes. Marla gave him a tissue and I put my arm around him.

“ ‘Blessed are they who observe justice, who do righteousness at all times,’ ” we read from Psalm 106. After that we recited Psalm 121, “ ‘I lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence does my help come?’ ”

I began to feel painfully, overpoweringly ill. How embarrassing would it be for Arch if I tried to slip out? Tom, sensing my discomfort, put his arm around me.

“I know what you’re feeling,” he said under his breath.

“What I’m feeling is sick.”

“Close your eyes, see if you can feel something.”

Since Tom was about the least New Agey person I’d ever encountered, I did as bidden. After a moment, I got it. What I felt was a struggle. The more I focused on it, the clearer it was. I opened my mouth in surprise. “What is it?” I asked him.

“The presence of good and evil,” he replied, his eyes fixed on the altar. “You’re feeling the conflict. Unresolved.”

Somehow, we got through it. In John Richard’s will, he’d designated an old doctor friend to take care of the funeral arrangements. Payment for the funeral was supposed to come out of John Richard’s estate—which I doubted was very large. But the doc had bought the coffin and made all the arrangements, so at least there was enough money for that. I’d have to leave worry about Arch’s high school tuition to another day.

Arch had said he did not want to attend a graveside ceremony, which I honored. I didn’t even know where John Richard would be laid to rest, nor did I care. The Jerk was most emphatically not my problem anymore.

When Marla asked if we were staying for the reception, Arch, Tom, and I declined. Sandee’s Rainbow pals were taking her off to party, Marla said. When I ran outside to see if I could catch Ruby Drake, she was gone.

Arch, Tom, and I went home in my van. Yes, I was a passenger in my vehicle. But it felt as if I’d been run over by it. I asked Arch what he wanted to eat for dinner, and he said he’d been invited to Todd’s for dinner and to spend the night, then Todd would take him to the party the next day. Didn’t I remember him telling me all this?

I did not. But I told him it was fine. He clomped upstairs and began throwing clothes and hockey equipment into a bag. By the time Eileen Druckman showed up to take him, I had left a long message for Detective Blackridge, telling him about the fake pearls at the end of John Richard’s driveway. I asked if he had questioned Ruby Drake. And had he gotten Tom’s message about Nan’s confession? Then I hung up.

I ran myself a hot bath and got in to soak. Tom insisted we get into pajamas—it was not yet five o’clock—and enjoy the ultimate comfort food: grilled-cheese sandwiches. He’d rented a lighthearted comedy set in Italy. I laughed and felt my spirits lift. By eight o’clock, we’d taken care of the dishes and the animals, and were snuggling in bed.

By quarter-past eight Tom was making slow, tender love to me. The gate to my soul swung open, and Tom’s love flowed in. He kissed me over and over, saying, “You are the greatest gift I have ever received.” He caressed my belly and thighs and said, “I will never cause you pain.” When it was over, he held me tight and whispered, “I will love you forever and ever.”

And then, finally, I began to sob.

Saturday morning we awoke to the sound of sirens. The smell of smoke was even thicker than it had been the day before. I coughed as I let the animals out. I revved up the fans, closed all the windows, and turned on the radio. The fire in the wildlife preserve had expanded to three thousand acres and was only 20 percent contained. They still hadn’t found the missing hikers. More firefighters had been called up from Colorado Springs and Pueblo, and we would be hearing those trucks arriving all day.

In the kitchen, I felt at loose ends. I still had no idea as to what had happened to John Richard—who had killed him and why. Was money involved? I wasn’t at all sure. And what about the clipping of the hair and all the other incongruous things found at the crime scene? Either the detectives weren’t getting anywhere or they weren’t keeping Boyd in the loop. I drank an espresso doused with cream. No Arch, no catering event, no amateur sleuthing? I couldn’t think of what to do with myself.

Cook anyway, my inner voice commanded. And so I did.

I checked my file. There was one pie crust recipe I hadn’t yet tried with the strawberry filling. An old standby, it featured unsalted butter and lard cut into flour and salt, then mixed with the smallest amount of ice water possible. Thank goodness for food processors, I thought as the blade cut the butter into the dry ingredients. When it was time for the lard, I scooped out the snowy white stuff and wondered, again, why it wasn’t in more recipes. Okay, it was fat, but so was butter. And the addition of lard to baked goods made them incomparably flaky.

And then there was Beef Wellington, where the placement of lardons helped keep the tenderloin juicy and moist. Yes, lard could be—

Wait a minute. When we said a dish was larded with fat, it was because there was so much of it. The implication was that “larding” meant “putting in lots of layers.”

But what else could you lard with layers? How about a crime scene? What if you planted Goldy Schulz’s gun there, for example? Wouldn’t that point to Goldy as the killer? And when the coroner found the victim’s hair cut—could it be for a trophy, or could it be used for a DNA test? How about dropping fake pearls? Was that meant to point to someone, or was it meant to point away from someone else? If the cops also found a pink tennis-ball gun silencer, how would they know whether the killer dropped it by accident or on purpose?

Larding. That’s what I was doing with the pie crust, whirling bits of fat that, when melted, would make the crust flaky and crisp. But if you larded a crime scene with lots of items, responsibility for the crime could point in any number of directions. If you were patient, gathering up your fake clues, then saw an opportunity to steal a gun or two, you could set up the whole thing, do the deed, and the puzzle would occupy the cops for weeks. Or months. Or maybe forever.

Tom came into the kitchen wearing navy slacks and a pale yellow polo shirt. He looked hot. Remembering the previous night, I got tingly all over.

“And where,” I asked, “are you going, looking so spiffy?”

“Breakfast with Boyd. Then down to the department. Not too many folks there on Saturday. I want to see some of the guys. Clean up my desk. Get going again.”

I smiled and gave him a tight hug. “Enjoy.”

He took off. I sat on our back deck with my double shot of espresso, thinking. If you changed just one thing that had been presented as fact in this whole crime, everything would drop into place. What might that fact be? I had an idea of who could be behind all this planning and plotting, not to mention execution, in both senses of the word. But I had to be sure.

The Aspen Meadow Public Library opened at ten on Saturday mornings. Kids of all ages congregated outside the glass doors, some to do research for homework, some to use the library computers to get online, some to go to the weekly story hour with their mothers. We were all coughing and hacking in the smoky air. Discussion of the fire’s progress dominated conversations. I waited with the kids and their mothers, not saying anything. I couldn’t preoccupy myself with the fire, because I was focused on the one piece of information I needed. Then I would be sure.

We poured through the door on the dot of ten. I made a beeline for the “Locals in Armed Services” photo display. Then I studied the blown-up photograph. After a while, I went to the reference desk and asked for all their books on Greek architecture, and Aspen Meadow High School yearbooks from four and five years ago.

Within twenty-five minutes, I had my answer. She’d lost some weight, had some plastic surgery on her nose, maybe when she got her boob job. She’d changed her haircut and color. And she’d managed to fool all of us, even her own mother. She’d even hoodwinked the fellow who prided himself on being so smart: Dr. John Richard Korman, whom she’d set out to ensnare even while he was still in jail.

I raced back to the van and called Tom on his cell. No luck. Was he out of range? Had he left the phone in his sedan when he met Boyd at their breakfast eatery? I left a voice-mail message: This time I’m sure. Call me back ASAP. Just for good measure, I called Boyd. No answer there, either. I cursed the phone, banged it on the dashboard, then put in a call to the sheriff’s department. Finally, finally I got Reilly.

“Listen, it’s Goldy Schulz,” I gasped. “I think I know who might have killed John Richard. Dr. Korman.”

Detective Reilly had become cordial, if not exactly warm, since the cops had discovered that my gun had not killed John Richard, that I hadn’t trashed his house, and that I’d known nothing about John Richard producing a love child with Talitha Vikarios. But Reilly did sigh when he heard my dramatic announcement about zeroing in on the killer. With forced patience, he said, “I’m listening, Mrs. Schulz. What did you find out?”

I summarized what I knew about Alexandra Brisbane, her terrible history, and what I believed was her motive for revenge. Then again, someone or someones close to her might have done the deed. I outlined how she, he, or they could have entrapped John Richard and gotten him into the money-laundering business, hoping he would start skimming…which was where the hundred and eight thou had come from. The murderer had hoped that John Richard would be killed for the skimming, as his predecessor, Quentin Drake, had been. And when John Richard escaped punishment, someone took matters into his or her own hands. Which is why the money launderers had shown up later and trashed John Richard’s house. They wanted their cash back.

“Okay, Mrs. Schulz, slow down,” Reilly said. “What data are you using to come to these conclusions?”

“The fact that the real Parthenon, its marble remains in ruins, is in Athens, Greece. And the Parthenon made from dun-colored stone is in Nashville, Tennessee.”

“Run that by me again?”

“Alexandra Brisbane sent her mother, Cecelia Brisbane, a picture of herself in front of the Parthenon in Nashville. She said she was in the navy—never mind that no ships deploy out of Tennessee—because Alexandra didn’t want her mother to know where she was. In addition, the photo was taken before Alexandra had shed fifteen or so pounds, had plastic surgery on her nose and boobs, and cut and curled her hair and dyed it platinum.”

“I’m still not—”

“Alexandra Brisbane is Sandee Blue.”

“What? Are you sure?” Reilly’s voice was doubtful. “I mean, Cecelia was at that Kerr funeral lunch, and Sandee Blue was there with your ex. Don’t you think Cecelia would have recognized her own daughter?”

“Not with her poor eyesight, and all those physical changes to her daughter.”

“But…Alexandra was from Aspen Meadow. What about her high school friends who could have recognized her?”

I was ready for this. “At the library, I looked up Alexandra in the Aspen Meadow High yearbooks from four and five years ago. Besides her chubby-cheeked, mousy-haired class picture, there were photos of her in the Explorers’ Club, beside Raccoon Creek, Cowboy Cliff, you name it. But she looked like a jock, not a stripper. Plus, she’s now working at the Rainbow Men’s Club. How many former back-country explorers do you suppose hang out there? I should add, Sandee has a very jealous boyfriend, Bobby Calhoun, otherwise known as Nashville Bobby. He has a Ruger that was supposedly stolen—”

“Okay, okay, we know that. Look, this is good information. Thanks. We’ve already radioed up to the fire chief that we want to question Calhoun as soon as they can spare him from the fire. The chief begged me not to take him off his line right now. And I’ll consult with Blackridge to see about bringing Sandee in for questioning.”

“But that’s not enough—”

“Mrs. Schulz, please. I can’t promise you anything. A lot of leads in this case have gone nowhere—”

“Like what?”

He exhaled. “Okay, how about Ted and Ginger Vikarios went straight from the Albert Kerr memorial lunch to a church meeting that lasted five hours? A handful of people claim the Vikarioses never left.”

“Please believe me, Detective. I know I’m right this time.”

“I understand, Mrs. Schulz. And we’re going to follow up, I swear. But I’ll tell you what we don’t want. We don’t want you questioning Sandee Blue. We don’t want you going to the Rainbow Men’s Club or anywhere else that could be dangerous. And by the way, your husband would say the same thing. Want me to go get him and put him on the phone with you? I think he just got back with Boyd.”

“No, thanks. I just feel so…nervous, knowing that Sandee and Bobby are out there somewhere—”

“Please, Mrs. Schulz. You have concerns, call your lawyer. All right? I need to go now.”

After I’d closed the phone, a cloud of worry descended on me. What if Sandee or Bobby tried to frame me further? They didn’t know that the cops had picked up all the money from the safe-deposit box…what if they tried to get the key out of Arch?

I put the van in gear and started toward Lakewood. I’d tried to solve this crime, first because I was implicated, and second, for Arch. For closure. But would it be so good for Arch to know his father had been killed because he’d raped a teenage girl? I thought not. Especially since I believed that that woman or her cohort, or cohorts, had also killed her own mother, probably because Cecelia hadn’t protected Alex from her own father. Was I crazy, or could all this be true? No matter what, we were talking about a very traumatized and disturbed individual or individuals. I certainly wasn’t going to try to catch the killer. If the cops didn’t want to follow up on my theories, then that was their problem.

But I’d promised not to go looking for trouble. And besides, I wanted to check on Arch. I’d never seen him skate for more than five minutes, anyway. He was such a good kid, and he’d been doing so much better since the school change, that he deserved some TLC…maybe a new outfit or lunch out after the game. Besides, I missed him.

The Lakewood rink was so mobbed with screaming kids that I thought my eardrums were going to pop. The lobby was teeming with boys in hockey gear and girls in figure-skating leotards and tights. Kids hollered at the desk attendant for locker keys and rental skates. Arch was nowhere in sight. I don’t think I would have recognized him right off, not in a helmet and all those pads, anyway. I made my way to rink side and watched the skaters whizzing past. Finally I picked out a jersey that said “Druckman.” The next time Todd shot by, I called to him to stop. This he did. He clomped, red-faced and sweaty, over the thick rubber padding to the spot where I stood.

“Where’s Arch?” I asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere and I can’t find him. I wanted to see him skate.”

“He’s gone!” Todd replied. “Somebody came to get him. The guy at the front desk might know who picked him up.”

I shrieked all the way to the lobby.

21

I unfolded the note with trembling hands. I cursed myself for not bringing Arch down here myself, for not figuring out the solution to John Richard’s murder before that trip to the library. I tried to read, but the words swam.

Bring JRK’s money to the Roundhouse at noon. Then you’ll get your kid back. No cops. You screw this up, your son gets dumped in the preserve, right next to the fire.

The note was unsigned. It was half-past eleven. I jumped into the van and headed back up the mountain. I put in a frantic call to Tom. One to Boyd. Another one to Reilly. Nobody was answering. I called the department dispatcher. My son had been kidnapped, I yelped, and I needed as many units as they could spare to hightail it to the Roundhouse, in Aspen Meadow….

She told me to calm down, she’d see what she could do. Meanwhile, I pressed the pedal and hit I-70 going eighty miles per hour. Maybe if a state trooper picked me up on his radar, I could get him to follow me. I willed the cell to ring. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed as I flew up the interstate, my horn blaring. The engine whined as I took the exit ramp at sixty miles per hour.

Oh, how I cursed myself for trusting her. That sweet act, anybody could be taken in. And had been. When are you going to play hockey, Arch? And my son so politely answering: Tomorrow morning, in Lakewood.

I flew through Aspen Meadow to the Roundhouse. No one there, either. It was five after noon.

I kept going up Upper Cottonwood Creek Road, toward the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. Toward the fire. Please let Arch be all right, I prayed.

The smoke became extremely thick halfway up the road. I was going to keep driving until a cop or fireman stopped me. Five miles up, I was flagged down. The road was covered with orange cones.

“You can’t go in there, lady,” a uniformed fireman informed me. He had a long, lined face and wavy gray hair matted to his egg-shaped head.

“Please help me,” I begged. “Somebody has kidnapped my child and said they’re going up to the fire. Maybe to meet someone, I don’t know.”

“Meet who?”

“Bobby Calhoun? Please, my son’s life is in danger!”

The fireman consulted a clipboard. “Bobby Calhoun has been up with his line for the last forty-eight hours, lady. I would have known if he’d—”

“If you don’t let me through,” I screamed, “I’m going to drive right through these cones!”

“All right, all right. I’ll lead you to the base camp for Calhoun’s line. It’s up by Cherokee Pass.”

He strode purposefully to his fire-department pickup. A moment later I was following him along one of the dirt roads that led into the preserve. I began to cough from the smoke. My eyes smarted as I squinted to make out the pickup’s rear lights. I closed all the van windows and pressed a button for the air to recirculate.

Was I right? Was Sandee driving Arch up to the fire? Had Arch told her the safety-deposit box was empty? Was she going to dump Arch, get Bobby, and then the two of them would take off together? How far did she think they’d get?

The fireman turned off onto a bumpy one-lane fire road lined with singed grass. I held my breath and prayed as the van groaned into the turn. Then I pressed the gas as gently as possible. The wheels lurched suddenly as I hit a small ditch. Somehow I managed to negotiate the ditch without vaulting the van onto the blackened grass.

Was the smoke turning orange, or was that my imagination? And was that snow falling or bits of ash?

Arch, Arch, I mouthed silently, my heart thudding. Be safe. Let me find you.

The fireman turned on his left signal and I followed. A ragtag row of pickup trucks were just visible through the heavy haze. The fireman parked and jumped out of his vehicle, with me close on his heels.

A group of firemen, their yellow outer garments zipped open, was sitting behind one of the trucks. As I came closer, I saw that their faces were blackened with ash. They were drinking water and talking in low tones to the fireman who’d led me up to them.

“Please help me,” I burst out. “I can’t find my son.”

One of the men, his blackened face streaked with sweat, shook his head. “Ma’am, we’ve got at least two hikers who’ve been missing for a couple of days. We didn’t see a kid anywhere, I promise. I saw Bobby Calhoun’s truck come up from one of the fire roads a little while ago. He parked down there somewhere, but I haven’t seen him—”

“Parked down there?” I cried, pointing along the row of parked trucks. “Somebody come with me, please!”

I turned and began trotting beside the trucks. The smoke made it hard to make out details of any of the vehicles. My coughing and hacking wasn’t helping me think, either. I glanced back and saw, thank God, three firefighters jogging along behind me.

And then I saw the pickup. “Visit Nashville!” the bumper sticker screamed. I turned to the firefighters and waved them forward.

“This is it,” I said, indicating the pickup. “I can’t see if anyone’s inside.”

“Okay, ma’am. Stay put.”

The firefighters exchanged a couple of words that I couldn’t hear. Then a pair of them walked toward the truck, one on each side. With a quick nod, they simultaneously opened the driver’s and passenger’s doors.

Arch jumped out of the passenger side and coughed. I shrieked his name. He rushed toward me.

“Why are we here?” he demanded. “Sandee kept asking about Dad’s safety-deposit box and saying we were waiting for you—” He began hacking and thumping his chest.

“Shh, it’s okay now,” I said. I tried to hug him, but as usual, he was not wanting an embrace, especially in front of tough-guy firefighters.

“Hey! Come back here!” the firefighter on the driver’s side of the truck hollered. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Through the smoke, I could just see Sandee Blue/Alexandra Brisbane, clad in some kind of black suit, running into the woods.

“Hey!” I hollered.

I took off after her. The firefighters, cursing, followed us.

The pine forest by the row of trucks ran up a steep hill. Panting, I began stomping through the underbrush, calling Sandee’s name.

When she didn’t answer, I shrieked, “You didn’t have to kill John Richard, you know! You didn’t have to kill him!”

Behind us, the firefighters, whose heavy boots were forcing them to a slower pace, were hollering that the two of us had better stop. Otherwise, their faint voices warned, we were all going to get killed.

Trying to listen to the sound of Sandee maneuvering through the underbrush, I ran blindly up the hill. Four minutes, five minutes, six. The smoke was becoming more and more dense, the air hotter.

Abruptly, the forest opened up at the edge of a wide cliff. There was nothing on the other side of the granite ridge but clouds of smoke. I halted, gasping.

Sandee was standing on top of a gray boulder at the very edge of the precipice. I blinked and squinted into the smoke. She was wearing what looked like a shiny black running suit and black tennis shoes. And…what was that hanging from her neck? A gold chain with a locket? What the hell was she up to now?

The firefighters’ heavy boots crashing through the undergrowth, as well as their raised voices, became louder.

I coughed, tried to get my breath, and peered up at Sandee. “You didn’t have to kill him.” I panted, then said, “You could have had him charged and prosecuted.”

Sandee’s laugh was strident. “The statute of limitations on rape is eight years. Think I would have had a chance? How good a witness do you think a stripper would have been?”

The firefighters slashed through the last bit of undergrowth and arrived at my side. Two of them each took one of my arms. The third one addressed Sandee.

“You crazy bitch!” he shouted. “Get down from here! You want us all to get burned up?” In spite of myself, I shook my head. They didn’t learn negotiating skills in firefighting school.

“No,” she called blithely. “Just me. But you need to listen first. That woman you’re holding, Goldy Schulz, did not kill her ex-husband, John Richard Korman. I did. I stole her gun and a couple more, and then shot him with one of them. My boyfriend, Bobby, wasn’t in on it. I also strangled Cecelia Brisbane!”

Abruptly, she disappeared from the rockface. Had she jumped?

“What the—” I muttered.

“Oh, dammit,” said one of the firefighters, the one who was holding my right arm. “What’s off that cliff, John?”

“Nothing,” John replied. “Raccoon Creek is a hundred yards down. She’s a goner.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders slumped. “We need to get back.”

Three days later, when the fire was finally, finally out, four teams trekked back into the preserve to assess the damage…and look for the remains of Sandee and the hikers.

But they didn’t find any human remains. The preserve is a very big place. So many people were evacuated, so many hikers and campers were forced out of the preserve, that the cops have yet to figure out who’s missing and who’s accounted for.

The team searching Raccoon Creek did make a discovery. On top of a boulder in the middle of the creek, they found a gold chain and locket. Bobby Calhoun, sobbing, identified it as the one he’d given Sandee.

I told Tom, and then Blackridge and Reilly, that it was possible—not probable, but possible—that Sandee had gotten away. She’d been a member of the Explorers’ Club in high school and knew every inch of the preserve, including where the creeks and fire roads led. Besides, I said, who runs into a fire to commit suicide? Sandee had planned everything out—the murders, framing others with fake clues. Why wouldn’t she have planned a getaway, too? Plus, she was a master of disguise, and…

My dear Tom, as well as Blackridge and Reilly, said there was simply no way. The detectives had interviewed the firefighters. They’d examined Cowboy Cliff, where Sandee had disappeared. Yes, there was a very narrow, rocky path down to the creek, but with all that smoke, nobody could have seen it or known its twists and curves. And given the size of the fire, no human could have made it out of the preserve alive.

“It’s over,” Tom assured me, pulling me in for a hug. “I never thought that I would be the one to say this, but we need to let go of this mess and move ahead. Okay, Miss G.?”

I groaned.

We had the memorial service for Sandee and Cecelia Brisbane the next week. Sandee had written up her story and mailed it to the Post, the News, and the Mountain Journal. So much sympathy was generated for her that Father Pete had to tell people to stop sending flowers to the church. Priscilla Throckbottom put an ad in the Mountain Journal saying that donations of pine seedlings could be made in Sandee’s name, and the PosteriTREE committee would plant them in the forest when the skeletons were found. I don’t know if she had any takers.

The church parking lot was filled to overflowing the day of the service. Everyone, it seemed, was trying to make sense out of these deaths. At the reception following the service, the words tragic and pointless kept coming up. Sandee had taken on evil to combat evil, and the whole thing had blown up in her face.

Blackridge and Reilly asked me to make a statement. I began by saying, You think you know people.

I thought I’d known Sandee. A stripper. A blonde. I knew she manipulated men to get what she wanted—first Bobby, then John Richard, then Bobby again. In her interactions with me, sometimes she’d acted ditzy, other times, self-centered. So I’d assumed that was exactly what she was. And all the time, she’d been watching me, watching Arch, asking questions, and taking notes. Did you bring money? she’d asked Marla and me. Planting the idea in our heads: Folks are dropping off money here, doesn’t that seem strange? Only we’d been too dense to get the fact that John Richard was up to something shady.

Oh my, but Sandee was good.

Following the details from Sandee’s letters, which told how she’d stolen both Bobby’s and Dannyboy’s Rugers, Blackridge and Reilly finally caught Lana and Dannyboy. Law enforcement was planning to bring murder charges against the two of them. The Denver PD was reopening the case of Quentin Drake, husband of stripper Ruby Drake. And then there was the incident of vandalizing John Richard’s rental home, looking for the money he skimmed. The crime lab picked up some latents that matched Dannyboy’s.

The Rainbow is closed now, and the archdiocese of Denver is negotiating to buy the place so it can set up a second soup kitchen. The church is hoping that, in time, people won’t remember what kind of establishment it once was. I wish them well.

Blackridge and Reilly asked why I thought Sandee killed her mother. Because, I said, the mother had failed to protect her daughter. Cecilia Brisbane, who was observant when it came to the faults of those around her, was blind when it came to her husband. She was deaf to the needs of her own daughter, and now both Brisbane parents were dead. Walter had done the irreparable damage, which had been compounded by Cecelia’s complicity.

And then, when Alexandra Brisbane was what—thirteen? fourteen?—John Richard Korman had raped her in a Southwest Hospital room. Nan Watkins had cleaned Sandee up and kept her own mouth shut. The detectives asked, Had Albert Kerr known what John Richard had done to Sandee? Had Ted Vikarios? I countered with, Would they have moved to punish John Richard if they had? I didn’t know, but I doubted it. The only time John Richard’s bad behavior had come home to roost for the Vikarioses was when the Jerk had impregnated their daughter, Talitha Vikarios. And she had left rather than abort the child or have our family embarrassed.

And so the reason for the double murder was—? Blackridge and Reilly asked.

I believed that Alexandra—Sandee with two e s—had not been able to tell her mother directly what Dr. Korman had done. Why would she? Her mother had not believed her before.

So Sandee had gotten out. She’d changed her name, dyed her hair, become a stripper, and saved up enough money for plastic surgery. Sometime before her surgeries, she’d made a trip to Nashville. Here I am, Mom! As Arch would say, Not. And yet Sandee had been the same person inside, with the same pain. Maybe she’d tried confronting her father with that pay-phone call. Rather than face the truth, he had killed himself. What was left of the people who’d failed Sandee?

Well, there was that doctor who had raped her. She’d tried to get her own mother to talk about the Jerk’s misdeeds in the Mountain Journal. But that hadn’t worked. Cecelia had felt…what? Fear? Suspicion as to who had written her an anonymous letter alleging that a longtime Aspen Meadow doctor had raped a teenage patient? In any event, Cecelia had done nothing except mail the note to me.

So Sandee had put all her energy into planning the murder of John Richard Korman. According to Lana, who was working on a plea deal, Sandee had encouraged her to hire John Richard to run the Smurfs, who laundered all that cash that came in to the Rainbow. Sandee had known that John Richard would take advantage, that he wouldn’t be able to resist skimming. As the cops say, “People don’t change. They just get better camouflage.”

You think you know people, and sometimes you do.

John Richard was unable to resist Sandee’s seductiveness. Courtney MacEwan couldn’t possibly compete with Sandee’s years as a stripper. Sandee was good. Most important, she hadn’t forgotten what had happened to her.

She’d had a month to put her plan into action. She’d gathered the materials that would point to other people, acting ditzy the whole time, so we wouldn’t suspect she was up to anything.

Does your mom protect herself? she’d asked Arch. Ooh, a revolver? Where does she keep it?

Where does that pretty Courtney MacEwan keep those pink tennis balls? she’d asked at the tennis shop, during one of her long waits at the golf shop. Ooh, may I see one of those cans?

At Albert Kerr’s memorial lunch, when Ted Vikarios had seen Arch in the kitchen, he’d known immediately that the Jerk was the father of his grandson. The resemblance between the two boys was just too strong. Even I had thought Gus was Arch. So Ted had confronted John Richard in the parking lot, probably just as Sandee was coming back with my thirty-eight tucked in her bag. Aha, she’d thought, one more person to blame this on! She hadn’t had anything of Ted’s to plant at the scene, but she knew what the argument was about: a child whom John Richard had supposedly fathered. So at the last minute, she’d said something like, “Just a minute, honey,” and run back to my van for one more thing: my kitchen shears to cut off a chunk of John Richard’s hair, and make it look as if someone might do a postmortem DNA test.

Maybe it was that argument, the one between Ted and John Richard, that had made Sandee think, Now I have enough suspects. Ginger and Ted Vikarios seemed to be furious with John Richard. In addition to the clipped hair, Sandee could leave pearls that looked like Ginger’s. And of course the very publicly jealous Courtney MacEwan was well known for those pink tennis balls.

And if all else failed, John Richard had a despised ex-wife who owned a gun, easily stolen.

And your theory on the death of Cecelia Brisbane? Reilly asked.

After all that, going over to Cecelia’s house, strangling her, running her car into the creek, all these would have been easy, almost an afterthought. Thanks for nothing, Mom.

What none of this explained, I told them, was the attack on me at the conference center the morning this whole thing had started. I believed I could rule out the Jerk.

There was only one person left: Courtney MacEwan, whose life I had ruined, she claimed. But I hadn’t been to blame for that. As usual, though, John Richard had been as unwilling as ever to take responsibility for his own desires. He’d wanted freedom to live on his own and do what he wanted. So he’d convinced Courtney, I firmly believed, that I was responsible for their breakup. And so she’d hired someone. Marla had even seen her paying him, although I couldn’t prove anything.

Courtney had seen Roger Mannis stalking my events, yelling at me about infractions. It bothered me that I couldn’t say without a doubt that Roger Mannis had messed up my food and attacked me. And yet he knew about the math of spoilage and how to turn off compressors that most people would just ignore. His skinny Uriah Heep body shape certainly matched the one of the person who’d shoved me out of the way and chopped the back of my neck.

What could I do about this? I couldn’t get him fired on a hunch. With John Richard gone, would Roger Mannis become the new jerk in my life? Sort of like Moriarty, running through all of Sherlock Holmes’s adventures as the impersonation of evil?

Courtney and Roger weren’t talking, but that wasn’t the end of it. The next time I catered and Roger Mannis showed up to bother me, I was calling the cops. And I had a new gig coming up: A friend of Brewster Motley had tasted my food and wanted me to come into their law offices to prepare breakfast and lunch. I wasn’t going to worry about Roger Mannis now; I was going to prepare for him. He wasn’t going to hurt me again and get away with it.

And then, after all that, good began to happen.

The day after Sandee Brisbane ran into the fire, I called Ginger Vikarios and told her what I suspected about John Richard being the father of their grandson. Let’s get our boys together, I’d said. Ginger had burst into tears. Fourteen-year-old Augustus Vikarios—Gus—would love to have a brother.

Along with her last will and testament, Talitha Vikarios had left her parents a separate set of instructions. It said that if Goldy Korman ever came into their lives and wanted to see Gus, it was okay, as long as she received the enclosed letter. When I visited Ginger Vikarios that same afternoon, she gave me it to me, along with heart-wrenching photos of Talitha with her little boy, who looked just like Arch, from infant to teenager.

Then, finally, I read Talitha’s letter to me.

Dear Goldy,If you ever do get this letter, it means that I died…not a pleasant thought! But you should know that my Gus and your Arch are half brothers. I don’t imagine they look alike, but maybe they do. Anyway, I didn’t tell anybody that Dr. Korman and I had an affair. I thought I was in love, but never mind. He wasn’t. And the main thing is, I wanted you and Dr. Korman and Arch to be a happy family without me, and without Gus.Oh, Goldy, please understand that I wanted my disappearance to be a gift to you. When I heard you were divorced, I wrote this letter and included it with my will, to be opened only if you somehow found out about Gus. I don’t want him to be a burden to you. I just want him to have a family besides my parents, whose career in the church was ruined by his appearance.I tried to do the right thing, a lot of right things, really, and I’m not sure any of them turned out right. But I have a great boy, and I hope you can find it in your heart to love him.Talitha Vikarios

In-Your-Face Strawberry Pie (I)

Crust

1 cup chopped filberts

½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted

2 cups all-purpose flour

In a wide, dry frying pan, toast the filberts over medium-low heat, stirring, until they emit a nutty scent and have turned a very light brown. Allow to cool on paper towels.

Preheat the oven to 350°. Butter a 9-by-13-inch or 10-by-14-inch glass pan.

Mix the nuts, melted butter, and flour until thoroughly combined, then press this mixture evenly onto the bottom of the pan.

Bake the crust for about 20 to 30 minutes, or until the crust is set and has turned a very light brown. Set aside on a rack to cool completely before filling.

Topping (see note)

1½ pounds fresh strawberries, trimmed and hulled

2 cups sugar

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 cup water

Mash the strawberries with a potato masher until they are crushed. Measure them; you should have about 2 cups. Mix the sugar with the cornstarch. In a large saucepan, heat the strawberries, sugar mixture, and water over medium heat, stirring, until the sugar has dissolved. Stirring constantly with a wooden spoon or heatproof spatula, raise the heat to medium-high (low altitude) or high (high altitude), and heat to boiling. (The mixture will be very hot, so be careful of splatters.) Stirring constantly, boil the mixture for about one minute, or until the mixture is very thick and begins to clear. (It will not clear completely.) Remove from the heat and pour into a heatproof bowl. Allow to cool completely.

Filling

1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, softened

1 cup confectioners’ sugar, sifted twice

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

2½ cups chilled heavy whipping cream

Beat the softened cream cheese with the confectioners’ sugar and vanilla until smooth. In a separate bowl, whip the cream until it holds soft peaks. (Do not overbeat.) Fold the whipped cream thoroughly into the cream cheese mixture.

To assemble the pie, spread the filling over the cooled crust. Carefully spoon the cooled strawgberry topping over the filling until it is completely covered.

Chill the pie thoroughly, at least 4 hours, before serving. If you are chilling the pie overnight, cover it with plastic wrap, which you remove just before cutting.

MAKES 24 SERVINGS

Note: For the topping, it is best to start with about 2 pounds of strawberries before trimming and hulling. You will end up with about 1½ pounds of strawberries. Also, you should prepare the topping before starting on the filling, because it needs to cool completely before being spread on the filling. Finally, this recipe makes about a cup more topping than you need for the pie. Leftover topping must be refrigerated and used within 2 or 3 days. It is delicious on vanilla ice cream or toasted, buttered English muffins.

In-Your-Face Strawberry Pie (II)

Crust

2½ cups all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar

1 teaspoon salt

½ pound (2 sticks) chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1-tablespoon pieces and chilled

¼ cup chilled lard, cut into 1-tablespoon pieces and chilled

¹/₃ cup plus 1 to 3 tablespoons ice water

1 egg white, lightly beaten

Additional sugar

In a large bowl (or in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade), whisk together the flour, sugar, and salt for 10 seconds.

Drop the first four tablespoons of chilled butter on top of the flour mixture, and cut in with two sharp knives (or pulse in the food processor) just until the mixture looks like tiny crumbs. (In the food processor, this will take less than a minute.) Repeat with the rest of the butter and the lard, keeping each unused portion of each one well chilled until it is time to cut it into the flour. The mixture will look like large crumbs when you finish adding all the butter and lard.

Sprinkle the water over the top of the mixture, and either mix with a spoon or pulse until the mixture just begins to hold together in clumps. If the mixture is too dry to hold together in clumps, add the additional water until it does. Place 12 ounces of this mixture into one 2-gallon zipped plastic bag. (This will be the top crust.) Put the remaining 15 ounces into another 2-gallon zipped plastic bag. (This will be the bottom crust.) If you do not have a scale, put a little bit more than half of the mixture into one bag, and a little bit less than half into the other. Pressing very lightly through the plastic, quickly gather each mixture into a rough circle in the center of the bag. Refrigerate the bags of dough until they are thoroughly chilled.

When you are ready to make the pie, preheat the oven to 425°. Have a rimmed cookie sheet ready to place underneath the pie.

Remove the bag of dough with the larger amount of dough from the refrigerator. Unzip the bag to ventilate it, then quickly roll out the larger crust (still inside the zip bag) to a circle approximately 10 inches in diameter. Using scissors, cut the plastic all the way around the bag and gently lift one side of the plastic. Place the bag, dough side down, in a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate. Gently remove the remaining piece of plastic so that the dough falls into the plate. Make the filling.

Filling

½ cup all-purpose flour

¼ cup cornstarch

1½ to 2 cups granulated sugar, depending on the sweetness of the strawberries

6 cups washed, hulled, and halved strawberries

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, cornstarch, and sugar. Place the strawberries in a large bowl and sprinkle the flour mixture over it. Mix thoroughly.

Fill the pie with the strawberry mixture, then repeat the rolling-out process with the other crust, and place it on top of the filling. Seal the two crusts together around the edges, and flute the crust. Using a sharp knife, cut four or five 2-inch slits in the top crust, to ventilate the pie. Using a pastry brush, brush the top of the pie with just enough of the beaten egg white to cover it. Sprinkle the top crust with a small amount of sugar.

Bake the pie in the lower third of the preheated oven for 20 minutes, then slide the cookie sheet underneath the pie and lower the heat to 350°. Continue to bake the pie until thick juices bubble out of the slits, about 35 to 45 minutes.

Remove the cookie sheet and place the pie on a rack. Allow it to cool completely. (Do not serve the pie hot or warm.)

Serve with best-quality vanilla ice cream.

10–12 SERVINGS

Primavera Pasta Salad

8 ounces pasta

¾ cup chopped fresh scallions

¾ cup grated fresh daikon

2 cups halved best-quality fresh cherry tomatoes

¾ cup finely chopped cilantro

¼ cup (or more) vinaigrette (see recipe)

Salt and pepper to taste

Cook the pasta and drain it, but do not rinse it. Allow it to cool to room temperature, stirring gently from time to time to keep it from sticking. Mix the pasta with all the chopped vegetables in a large serving bowl. Add vinaigrette until every ingredient is lightly dressed (not slathered). Add more tomatoes, cilantro, or scallions to taste. Salt and pepper to taste. Chill. This salad is best served within 5 hours of being prepared.

4 SERVINGS

Vinaigrette

¼ cup best-quality red wine vinegar

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

¾ to 1 teaspoon granulated sugar

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 cup best-quality olive oil

Whisk together vinegar, mustard, sugar, salt, and pepper. Slowly whisk in the oil to make an emulsion. Whisk again before adding ¼ cup (or a bit more) to the salad. Refrigerate unused vinaigrette.

Party Pork Chops

4 1-inch-thick pork chops

Brine

5 cups water

¼ cup kosher salt

¼ cup sugar

Marinade

1 teaspoon dried thyme leaves, crumbled

1 teaspoon dried rosemary, crushed

2 garlic cloves, pressed

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

2 tablespoons olive oil

Rinse the pork chops with water and pat them dry with paper towels.

In a large bowl, whisk together the brine until the sugar and salt are dissolved. Place the pork chops in the brine, cover, and brine overnight in the refrigerator.

Drain the brine. Rinse chops in cold water and let stand in cold water 10 minutes. Pat dry.

Whisk together the marinade ingredients. Place pork chops in the marinade and allow them to marinate for 1 hour. (While the pork chops are marinating, you can make the apples; recipe follows.)

Preheat the oven to 375°. On the stove, heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat, then pour in 2 tablespoons oil and let it heat until it shimmers. Sear the chops for about 2 minutes on each side (until well caramelized), then flip and do the other sides for 2 minutes. You can either remove them from the pan and place them in a roasting pan, or, if your skillet can be placed in the oven, roast them directly in the pan.

Roast the chops until a thermometer indicates their interior temperature is 145°. While the chops are roasting, reheat the apples. Serve immediately.

4 SERVINGS

Party Apples

6 Granny Smith apples

¼ pound (1 stick) unsalted butter, divided

½ cup packed dark brown sugar

½ cup cognac

Core, peel, and slice the apples. In a wide frying pan or Dutch oven, melt 4 tablespoons of the butter and add the apple slices. Over medium-low heat, cook and stir the apples until they begin to soften, about 5 to 10 minutes. Remove them to a bowl. Melt the remaining butter in the pan and add the brown sugar. Over medium-low heat, stir until the sugar dissolves.