The Grilling Season

“Wait, Donny. What about the autopsy results?”

“Coroner’s office should have ‘em at the sheriff’s department by the time I get back to the office. But don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. So, when was the last time John Richard Korman clobbered you?”

I took a shaky breath, remembering. “Seven years ago. He broke this thumb” – I gestured – “in three places not too long before we divorced.”

“Okay, I’ll have to check what the pathologist says about Suz Craig’s hand, if there’re any contusions there. If we’re lucky, maybe he broke her finger, too. How would Korman attack you? You don’t mind me asking?”

“He’d grab my arms, shake me very hard. He liked to punch me in the face, even though most high-income abusers are devious enough to avoid the face. I usually ended up with a black eye.”

“Which eye?” He was not writing. “The right. Which was the black eye on her, too, I noticed.”

“You’re correct there, little woman. Okay, now when he clobbered you, would he knock you out right away? Or would the fight go on for hours?”

I gripped the knife. Recalling these events never became less painful. “It depended on how angry he was,” I said softly. “But, Donny,” I couldn’t help interjecting, “what about the facts of this case? Since I never pressed charges, a judge may not allow all this. Have you talked to anyone down at Suz Craig’s office? At ACHMO?”

“Oh, yeah. I was down in Denver talkin’ to some execs at the HMO this morning – “

“Which execs?” The only ACHMO executives in town had been busy raiding John Richard’s office in Aspen Meadow. Had the rest of the department heads returned from the San Diego conference?

“Well… talking to Suz Craig’s secretary, actually, ‘cuz most of the rest of the guys are off on some trip. But you can learn more that way. Those gals really know what’s cooking, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

“Ah.” I put down the knife and zapped the lemon zest in the grinder. Then I pulverized the blanched slivered almonds and piled them into a pale mound. “So. What did Suz’s secretary have to say?”

“Well…” He reached for another beer, pried off the top, and took a long swig. “I really shouldn’t say.”

“Why not? Maybe I could help you. Fill in the blanks.”

He harumphed, popped the last of the sandwich into a corner of his mouth, chewed, and licked his fingers. Sometimes I wondered if the only decent food Donny ever got was when Goldilocks’ Catering got mired in one of his investigations. “I’m telling you, Goldy, nobody likes Korman. But nobody liked that Craig woman, either. I mean, nobody. You know, you’d think people wouldn’t speak ill of the dead.

But get right down to it, I’m surprised nobody did her right there in the office. Course, they didn’t have, the pattern, like our Doc Korman.”

I beat unsalted butter with sugar, egg yolks, vanilla, and lemon zest; measured out flour and the other dry ingredients, and then mixed them with the creamed mixture to make a nutty, buttery, heavenly-smelling dough. “Have you been looking at any other facts of the case, Donny?”

“Tha-a-a-at’s why I’m here, right?”

I wondered briefly if I could nip out for one of j the tranquilizers Marla had given me. Maybe Amy’s! herb capsules had sedative powers. But no – there was a chance Donny’s boastfulness would win out’ and he’d tell me what Suz’s secretary had had to say. If I didn’t appear too eager, that is. So I concentrated on the question of how to provide a high ratio of tart raspberry jam to cookie dough. Scooping the dough into cupcake pans and then topping them with spoonfuls of jam would work. I ignored Donny and set about buttering a pan.

He continued eagerly. “You listening? You wouldn’t have believed how much that secretary, name of Luella Downing, hated Ms. Craig. Luella. was in some kind of state this morning.”

I tsked, but continued assiduously spraying a pan. “See,” he persisted, “this Luella resented Ms. Craig ‘cuz Ms. Craig had made it her business to know some money details of Luella’s divorce.” I looked up from the pan and raised my eyebrows. Donny smirked triumphantly. “I told Luella I wouldn’t prosecute or nothing.” I hid my exasperation and nodded knowingly. He went on. “Come to find out that Ms. Craig knew Luella had liquidated her IRA and put the money into her parents’ account so’s Luella’s ex wouldn’t find it. Our Ms. Craig used that info to get Luella to shut up about the taping.”

I dropped the pan on the counter. “Taping of what?”

He held up a hand. “I’m getting there. And don’t worry, I checked to see where Ms. Luella was over the weekend, just in case she’d gotten it into her head to off her boss over the IRA stuff. Luella was organizing a rummage sale for her parents’ church in Aurora. The story checks out – Beiner went to the church and interviewed the parents.”

A minute amount of admiration for Donny wormed its way into my brain. “So… what was Luella taping?”

“Luella wasn’t taping. Suz Craig was. Any meeting in her office.” He lowered his voice. “Like the frigging White House, you asked me. See, nobody but Ms. Craig and Luella knew. Luella says if she’d dropped the dime on her boss, she would have lost her job and possibly her IRA bucks.”

“Does Luella know what was on the tapes? Did she transcribe them?”

“No, oh, no. Luella just happened to discover Ms. Craig loading a fresh tape into the machine built into her desk. See, one time Luella walked in on Ms. Craig without knocking, checking on some correspondence or something, and saw her fiddling with this machine. Luella says, ‘What in the world are you doing?’ That’s when Ms. Craig says, ‘You tell anybody about this and I’ll fire you and tell your ex where your IRA dough is.’ The one thing Ms. Craig told Luella was never to touch the machine. The boss lady told Luella she taped the meetings to cover herself. She also labeled the tapes and put them in a locked cabinet.”

“Good Lord. So what happened? How were they discovered?”

“When Ms. Craig turned up blue in a ditch, somebody called Luella. Turns out Luella was already home from the rummage sale. Soon as Luella heard her boss was dead, she called corporate HQ. Somebody was there even though it was Saturday. Luella hollered, ‘You guys need to know about these tapes and go get’ em before the press gets hold of ‘em. Old Suz Craig was such a bitch, there’s no telling what’s on those tapes.’ Corporate HQ has a cow and sends two guys to Denver Saturday night. They’re scrambling like mad to break open her locked cabinets when somebody tips off the sheriff’s department. They show up with a search warrant and seize the tapes they’ve found, plus use Ms. Craig’s keys from her house to search all the office cabinets for more.”

“You learned all this from Sergeant Beiner? Or from Luella Downing?” I asked suspiciously.

“Little of both. My job, you gotta put everything together.”

“And why do you suppose Luella is spilling her guts to you?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Hey, Goldy! Ace caterer amateur detective! Wake up! Luella shouldn’t have called Minneapolis first, she should have told the cops about the tapes first. This morning Luella’s suddenly got a big case of remorse, ooh, ooh, she meant to tell us, but she didn’t want to lose her job, see, is what she’s saying. Meanwhile, our department takes an inventory. Looks like one day’s tapes are missing, and the people at ACHMO swear they don’t have a clue where they are. So, bit later in the morning, the sheriff sends a team back up to Suz’s house. They turn up nothing.”

“Sheesh.”

“So I’m thinking about your ex-husband, see. I’m thinking, why did he and Suz Craig have that catfight on Friday night? And then I think, the missing tapes, of course! John Richard probably has them.

What? I pressed my lips together and turned away. I had to think. Delicate material, John Richard had said. I nudged soft scoops of dough into each cup. And what had ReeAnn said? She wanted him to put some stuff… in a safe place, somewhere the AstuteCare people couldn’t find them. I ladled tart, inky jam on top of each dough disc. At John Richard’s office this morning, Brandon Yuille had asked me the same question: If John Richard has given you anything to hide … I popped the cupcake pan into the hot oven.

“What could be on the tapes?” I asked, perplexed. “And who could have them?”

“Well, now, those are the questions, aren’t they? The execs are scrambling like crazy. Where’re the tapes, these powers-that-be want to know. And, believe me, this morning? All the ACHMO secretaries were pulling up the wall-to-wall trying to find the damn things. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, since Suz Craig’s house has turned up nothing, the duty judge gives our guys a search warrant for Korman’s house. No tapes, but somebody messed up his house bad with paint – “

“One day’s tapes… What day? What folks met with Suz Craig that day?” I interrupted.

“Luella’s trying to reconstruct that.” He shook his head and burped. “Korman doesn’t have anyplace he hides things, does he?”

“He’s compulsively neat. And he’s just sold his place in Keystone.” I chewed the inside of my lip. “He hasn’t been to his condo in Hawaii since June. I guess he could have stashed the tapes there. But if they’re in Hawaii, what would happen if Suz wanted [hem back?”

“Man, would I love it if the department sprang for a trip to the islands! Damn! You got another beer?”

“Donny. Are you driving?” He pulled his chin into his neck. “Well, yeah, but you don’t need to worry about a coupla beers, Goldy, I can handle it. And don’t worry, I’ll callout to Hawaii for a search warrant. Now, how ‘bout – “

“Let me fix you some coffee. You know my husband’s a cop. I wouldn’t want you having an accident after drinking beer at our house. It’d look bad.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly, eyeing the espresso machine on my counter. “Only don’t give me any of that cappuccino crap or I’ll barf.”

I fixed Donny plain black coffee, which he slurped noisily. The nut-scented Linzer tarts resembled circular stained-glass windows when I removed them from the oven. Since they would go in the doll-show box lunches, I decided to call them Babsie’s Tarts. While I was placing them on a rack to cool, I asked Donny if there were any suspects besides John Richard. He said not since Luella’s alibi had checked out. I asked him if they’d caught the vandals who’d defaced John Richard’s house, and he said, “Oh, do they think it was vandals?” Finally I asked him if he knew about the bonus John Richard was supposed to get, but didn’t.

Babsie’s Tarts

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

ž cup sugar

2 egg yolks

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest (see Note)

1 ˝ cups bleached all-purpose flour (add one tablespoon in high altitudes)

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

ź teaspoon ground cloves

ź teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 ź cups blanched slivered almonds, ground (see Note)

1 to 1 ź cups best-quality seedless red raspberry jam

Beat butter until creamy. Add sugar and beat until thoroughly incorporated. Beat egg yolks slightly with vanilla and lemon zest. Add to creamed mixture, stirring thoroughly. Sift dry ingredients together, then stir into creamed mixture. Stir in almonds.

Preheat oven to 350 . Spray two non-stick cupcake pans with vegetable oil spray. Using a 2-tablespoon scoop (or measuring out in 2 tablespoon increments), place one scoop of batter into each cupcake pan. Pat the batter gently to cover the bottom of each cup. Do not indent the dough or the jam that is to be cooked in the center will leak through. Place 2 teaspoons of jam in the center of each tart.

Bake for about 15 minutes, until the batter has risen and turned golden brown around the jam. After the pans have been removed from the oven, use a sharp knife to loosen the edges of each tart. Allow the tarts to cool in the pan until cool to the touch, at least 1 hour. Using a kitchen knife, gently lever the tarts out onto cookie racks and allow to cool completely. You may serve them plain, or sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve with a scoop of best-quality vanilla ice cream.

Makes 2 dozen.

Note: Citrus zests and nuts are easily ground in a clean coffee grinder.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s part of my theory. The Craig lady didn’t approve the usual bonus for Korman, so he didn’t have any money, and so he wouldn’t give her the tapes he’d hidden, and so they argued and he killed her.” He turned the corners of his lips down, shook his head. “It was his pattern,” he concluded smugly. “Say, those smell awful good.”

I put a warm, crumbly Babsie’s Tart on a small I plate and handed it to him. “Ah … did you find out why exactly Suz didn’t give him his bonus? Did Luella clue you in on that?”

He placed the small tart in his mouth, lounged back in the chair, and held up one finger as he chewed. “Billing,” he said finally. “He didn’t bill right. I’m going to really grill Korman’s secretary about that. You know, about whether Korman and Ms. Craig ever argued about bills. Plus there’s a malpractice suit outstanding against him. The HMO didn’t like that, or the fact that they were being sued by the same patient. So our doc was in hot, hot water. Boiling. More reason to kill Ms. Craig.” He glanced at his watch. “Talk about billing! I need to see a couple more people today or the department will have a fit over the hours I submit.”

“How come?”

“Well, usually I bill by the hour, but they’ve been saying I’m too thorough with each person and spend too much time investigating. Whoo-ie! Now I bill by the people I talk to. Plus, even though I have a photographic memory, I have to write up a report on each interview. And believe me, those reports can be a bear, you’re typing ‘em up the middle of the night.”

“I’m sure you can manage it,” I said reassuringly as I escorted him to the door.

“I wouldn’t mind the typing so much,” he said disconsolately, “if only I didn’t get so hungry.”

So I gave him another tart. Donny Saunders may be a pig, but I can never resist a hungry soul.

To my surprise, Arch called and asked if Todd could spend the night. I said yes, and was further pleased when Arch asked for his favorite dinner, baked potatoes with a variety of toppings. I was hopeful that fixing the potatoes would help me reflect on Donny Saunders’s visit. Tapes? What tapes? And where were the missing ones? I’d learned just enough to be frustrated. If Frances Markasian ever did a story on the waste of taxpayer money, I’d point her in the direction of old Donny.

I filled a wide frying pan with extrathick bacon slices, and for some reason thought of the composer Schoenberg. Schoenberg had been quoted as saying that his music contained all his secrets. His composi tions held the key to unlocking the inner workings of his soul. You just had to know how to listen. Somehow, all the information before me might contain enough data to unlock the secret of what had happened in the early hours of Saturday morning. I just didn’t know how to decipher it.

The phone rang. It was the therapist’s office calling to say I’d be getting a call later in the day about scheduling Arch. Apparently there was no way the temporary secretary could do anything now. I sighed and said I’d be waiting for her call.

I trimmed crisp green broccoli for one of the potato-toppings and thought of Arch. He and Todd were planning an extended “jam” tonight. Jamming, I’d learned, was not about food, but about music. Fine with me. I wanted Arch to have a regular social life instead of fretting about his father. Truth to tell, though, it pained me that I couldn’t relate to the music that today’s fourteen-year-olds liked. I’d faulted my parents for finding the Rolling Stones, execrable. But the Rolling Stones made music. What Arch and Todd listened to was just noise. Well, I thought with a sigh, Schoenberg’s mother probably had trouble with her son’s music. Come to think of it, I thought as I retrieved a dozen fat Idaho potatoes from my pantry, Schoenberg’s music pretty much sounded like noise to me, too.

As I washed and pricked the potatoes, I remembered to call the town veterinarian. I was still wondering about the scratches on Ralph Shelton’s face and if they’d truly come from his feline. The veterinarian’s receptionist said that under no circumstances could she tell me anything about the care of Ralph Shelton’s animals. Patient confidentiality seemed alive and well these days, if you were a cat. Well, maybe Tom would know.

I placed the potatoes in the oven, then kneaded the brioche dough gently, divided it, and set it into loaf pans for its third and final rising. By the time Arch, Todd, and Tom arrived home, I’d put the loaves in the oven and finished making the dinner. Todd Druckman, who was baby-faced and slightly pudgy, and had hair that was even browner and straighter than Arch’s, pronounced ours the best-smelling kitchen he’d ever visited. A pile of baked potatoes invited slashing and filling. I pointed to where the boys could choose from a vat of creamy cheese sauce bubbling on the stove, broccoli florets heaped in a steaming pile, and a mountain of hot, crispy bacon that beckoned with its mouthwatering scent. The real surprise occurred, however, when Arch, Todd, Tom, and I were bustling around setting the table. We didn’t even notice Macguire entering the kitchen.

“Hey!” he said. “What smells so great?”

For a moment we were all speechless. Macguire, hungry? Then Tom winked at me. “What is it Cinderella’s godmother says? Sometimes miracles take some time?”

I looked at my watch. “Yeah. Six hours. That’s when we left the health-food store. Amazing.” Macguire still shuffled and his body was achingly thin. But healthy color infused his cheeks for the first time in a month, and he wanted something to eat! Both were momentous developments. I offered a silent prayer of thanks.

The potatoes were indeed out of this world: each flaky bite was robed in golden cheese sauce and melded stupendously with the tender broccoli and crunchy bacon. Macguire, to my amazement, slowly ate two potatoes slathered with toppings, then laughingly pronounced himself so full his stomach ached. Tom, Todd, and Arch cleaned every last bite from their plates. Our meal was full of companionship, good food, and laughter. I never once thought of the corpse I’d found in the ditch.

Arch broke the spell of family life. He said suddenly, “I wonder what they’re having at the jail tonight.”

“Hon,” I replied gently, “your dad’s out on bail. This morning we – “

“You found out this morning that he got out? And you didn’t call me at Todd’s?”

“I thought… if your dad wanted to call, he would –”

“And you probably wouldn’t let me talk to him!” He looked accusingly from me to Tom. “And I’ll bet you haven’t done anything today to help him, either!”

“Excuse me, young man, but I have too done something – “

But before I could finish my sentence, Arch threw down his fork and ran out of the room.

Tom shook his head. Todd looked bewildered. I silently put a half-dozen Babsie’s Tarts on a plate, handed Todd a six-pack of soft drinks, and told him to go on up and see what he could do. Todd took the plate along with the pop cans and gratefully excused himself.

“Maybe I should go, too,” Macguire announced in a guilty tone, and left. Minutes later I saw the light on the phone flash red, indicating that Arch was making an outgoing call from upstairs. The call did not last long. Probably Arch had called John Richard’s number and left a message on his machine. My mind immediately leaped to a fresh question: If the Jerk wasn’t home to answer his phone, where was he?

Tom said, “Let me do the dishes, Miss G.”

“You do everything,” I said, disconsolate. “Bring home takeout. Do the dishes. Put up with us. Put up with me.”

“You make a great dinner,” he countered as he started hot water running in the sink. “And you’re the one who tries to do everything. You can’t make everything go smoothly.”

“At least I’d be a better investigator than Donny Saunders.”

Tom chuckled. “Sorry, Miss G., but that’s not saying much.”

While he was doing the dishes, I asked him about the tapes from Suz Craig’s office. He said the department was listening to the tapes they had found and making an inventory of them. I told him about the discussions I’d had with Amy Bartholomew and ReeAnn Collins. He nodded and didn’t take notes, indicating he’d already heard similar information at his office. Then he punched buttons on the espresso machine. A few moments later he placed a demitasse of crema-laden espresso in front of me and sat down across the table.

I sighed. “If I drink this, I’m going to be up all night.”

“Aw, drink it. You’re going to be up all night anyway. You’re going to be up every night until this is over. And trust me, Goldy, these things always come to an end. One way or another.”

I closed my eyes and sipped the rich, satisfying espresso. When Tom placed the last dish in the dishwasher, I slid the golden-brown brioche loaves out of the oven and placed them on racks to cool. Their rich, homey scent bathed the kitchen.

Tom said, “Let’s take some cookies out on the deck: I want to talk to you about the autopsy, but I want to be somewhere the boys won’t hear us.”

“Chocolate, coffee, and death. Dark topics all.” We stretched out on one of my fancy deck-furniture couches that had been in disuse for so long. The night air was sweet, mellow, and filled with the buzz of unseen insects. Just above the mountains’ dark silhouette, Venus glowed like an ice crystal.

We savored the Chocolate Comfort Cookies in silence, curled together in each other’s arms. The! cookies were chock-full of fat chocolate chips and crunchy toasted hazelnuts. The sun-dried cranberries gave a delicious, tart chewiness to each bite.

I asked Tom if the cops had called Shelton’s veterinarian and he said yes. The scratches on Ralph Shelton’s face had been inflicted by his cat but were minor. Then Tom sighed. He asked, “Did you also know Suz Craig had a cat?”

“Yes, a shy calico one named Tippy. Saturday morning, right after you went to talk to the deputies, that cat jumped into my arms. I know Tippy was part of the crime scene, but I was afraid she’d get trampled if I abandoned her. I left her with Tina Corey. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. I snuggled in close and just enjoyed his warmth.

“Here’s what we found out today,” Tom said at length as he massaged my back. “Suz Craig’s security system was turned off. Also, Suz Craig didn’t die from falling into the ditch. She died of a subdural hematoma. No blood, because she was hit with her cat’s scratching post. It’s a solid metal cylinder covered with carpeting. You know what a subdural – “

“Yes. A blow causes bleeding into the brain. The bleeding brings on death.”

“Right. It takes eight hours for lividity to fix, and she’d only been in the ditch two, maybe three hours before you found her. It’s very unlikely she could have gotten the fatal blow there. So somebody put her outside. Why, we don’t know. We’re still waiting for the drug screen to come back; that’ll take a few days.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Tom continued thoughtfully. “Here’s the odd thing. She definitely has the same pattern of bruises that you used to have when John Richard attacked you. If he’d beaten her up and killed her immediately, the bruises wouldn’t have shown up on the corpse. Bruises take about three or four hours, minimum, to develop, unless the victim’s one of those rare people who show a bruise within an hour. So what happened between the time Suz Craig got beaten up and the time she died of a blow from the cat’s scratching post? And how did she get into that ditch?”

“The vandals say John Richard left that night and then came back. Or somebody in a Jeep just like one of his, no lights, came there.”

“Yeah.” Tom sighed wearily. “I know what they said. We’re checking to see if any white Jeeps were rented anywhere in the Denver area. And we’ve got the drug screen to wait for. Plus the skin under her nails has been sent to a crime lab. So we’ll know more by the end of the week. If it’s Korman’s skin, at least we’ll have him for assault.”

But not necessarily for murder. Would he walk? I didn’t want to think about it.

As Tom had predicted, I did not sleep well. At one point I crept down to the kitchen and typed into the computer my own notes on what ReeAnn Collins, Amy Bartholomew, Donny Saunders, and Tom had told me. I didn’t nave a photographic memory. But then, after what I’d been through when I lived’ with the Jerk, I’d prayed never to have a photographic memory.

20

Despite the fact that Tuesday morning dawned with a bright sun and jewel-bright hummingbirds whirring past my downstairs windows, I did not feel the least bit cheered. Tom had left early. I went through my yoga routine trying to empty my mind – not easy. Today, among all the other crises, I was set to begin catering to the doll people. I’d read recently about the necessity of going into a zone of enjoyment when doing your work, especially if you expected to derive pleasure from your career over the course of a lifetime. I tried to see the zone and imagine Gail Rodine not in it.

I sliced the cooled brioche loaves and then began making the box lunches. Each lunch would contain four sandwich triangles: cucumber, smoked salmon, Swiss cheese, and the pesto-tomato-chčvre combination that Donny Saunders had gobbled up so ravenously. I shuddered and fixed myself an iced latte. Something Donny had said kept swimming up just below my consciousness as I smoothed cool mayonnaise over the bread slices and laid out the sandwich fillings.

When I finished wrapping the sandwiches, I tucked a miniature bottle of white wine, wrapped cheese straws, a cup of plum, orange, and banana fruit salad, and a plastic bag with a Babsie’s Tart and a chocolate cookie in each box. As I closed the last cardboard box, my eye fell on the computer. Computer, disks, tapes. Tapes. If Luella had told anyone about the taping, she would have lost her job. How significant were these meetings that Suz had taped? I didn’t know, and I’d promised Tom I wouldn’t go nosing around at ACHMO. I put in a call to Brandon Yuille’s office. I would apologize for snapping at him at John Richard’s office, then pump him for info. When his assistant asked suspiciously who was calling and I told her, I had to wait two minutes for her cold response that Mr. Yuille was unavailable. I asked if I could call back at a more convenient time. She responded icily that there just was no convenient time. Fine. I hung up and called Chris Corey’s office.

His secretary put me right through. “Goldy!” His deep, rumbly voice sounded surprised. “What’s going on? Korman hasn’t come over to bother you, has he?”

“He wouldn’t dare. Listen, Chris, something one of the investigators said has been bothering me.” I hesitated, remembering I’d promised not to mention that Luella was the one who had spilled the beans to Donny. “It relates to what we were talking to Frances about Sunday at the cafe. You said ACHMO was going into John Richard’s office looking for notes about the McCrackens’ suit.”

“Well … yes.”

“It’s just that I heard there were some missing tapes, too.”

Chris grunted. “Don’t remind me.”

I persisted innocently, “What’s going on? Why would Suz keep tapes of meetings in her office?”

He lowered his voice. “Look, Goldy, it’s a huge crisis. Everybody’s upset about it. Nobody seems to know why she was taping in her office. Secretly taping. Makes it much worse.”

“You say that as if there were other taping systems.”

“Yeah, sure. The microphones in our main meeting room are sound-activated, and everybody knows that everything there gets taped, then transcribed so we have accurate minutes for each meeting. It could have been Suz was afraid of industrial spying, and that’s why she did some kind of backup taping in her office. Maybe she kept the tapes locked up there and took them from her office to her home or wherever because some threat had appeared.”

“Did she know about your work with Frances?”

“Not unless Frances told her, and that’s unlikely.”

“Who could be doing spying that would make Suz worried?”

“Look. Our meetings are confidential, Goldy, and if another HMO like MeritMed is trying to find out the details of our expansion plans, there could be hell to pay. And with legal action outstanding against us, the thought of having tapes of other in-house meetings floating around where anybody might get their hands on them is causing mass paranoia in corporate headquarters, believe me.”

“Are you sure Suz had them?”

“No! What sends shivers up the bowels of HQ is that somebody Suz fired might have them. If anyone besides Luella knew Suz was taping, there could have been motivation to get in and steal them, especially if they might prove something against ACHMO. Plus,” he added darkly, “they’re panicked that Patricia McCracken might have them somehow. That woman’s gone a little bonkers. It wouldn’t surprise anybody here if she’d managed to steal the key to that cabinet, break into the office, and swipe the tapes from one of the days when Suz met with our lawyers about the McCracken case.”

“So you don’t even know what day’s meetings are missing?”

He groaned with frustration. “We’re trying to reconstruct, but it’s a huge mess. We should know today. We’re supposed to have security, but you know how that goes. Anyway, Goldy, speaking of meetings, I’ve got to go to one now. Damage control. Good luck with whatever it is you’re working on.”

“I’m not really working on anything, Chris. It’s just that my son is very upset. I promised him I’d try to help his dad, much as I dislike the man.”

I hung up and packed the lunches between freezer bags guaranteed to keep food cold. When I was almost done, Macguire came down to breakfast His transformation was remarkable. His cheeks were genuinely pink. There was a spring to his only slightly wobbly step, and he had a broad smile on his face that made me laugh.

“Let me fix you some toast,” I offered. “And some eggs, maybe?” “Sounds great.” While the frying eggs sizzled in the pan, Macguire dutifully washed down his ten herb capsules with water turned a science-fiction green by the chlorophyll. “Todd and Arch are still asleep,” he announced. “I’ll wake them up at ten. They listened to music until three A.M. I’ll fix ‘em breakfast, too. Toast, probably.” His grin warmed my heart.

I thanked him for tending to Arch and Todd, declined his offer to help load my supplies, and hauled the first cardboard box out to my van. When I came back into the kitchen, my phone was ringing. “Goldy, my God, I’m so glad I got you.” Ralph Shelton’s voice sounded exhausted and strained. “Look, I’m terribly sorry about running into you at the McCrackens’ party. I just got out of control on those blades. Are you all right?”

“Sure, Ralph.” No use troubling him with a litany of my lingering aches. “Thanks for calling.”

He hesitated. “I just need to talk to you for a minute. Remember when you were over here asking how to get to the McCrackens’ place?”

“Yes. What’s the matter?”

“Well. I was supposed to drive to Omaha this morning, but they got word that… Oh, God, I need to know if you know anything about these tapes that Suz Craig was making. Please tell me, Goldy, I’m leveling with you. As an old friend.”

I took a deep breath. “Why do you care about them?”

His voice wavered, as if he were about to cry. “Because I went in to see her last month, on the fourteenth to be exact, and… I just can’t let anyone know what we talked about. Please, Goldy, help me. Suz was trying to destroy me. Do you have the tapes? Does John Richard? Are they at his office? Or his house? I’ve already driven past Suz’s house and there’s that damn yellow tape all around it – “

“Ralph, calm down. First tell me – exactly why were you fired from ACHMO?”

For a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he sighed. “Patient complaints. No sexual misconduct or anything like that. It’s just that I have a terrible bedside manner. I always have. You can imagine how that can kill you in ob-gyn. So. I was offered an administrative job with MeritMed. I took it.”

I recalled Suz’s secretary, whom Suz had kept in line with threats. “Was Suz threatening you in any way?”

He hesitated. “You’ve learned a lot, haven’t you? She did threaten people. Yes, I was one of them. But it was all … exaggeration. I left before she could ruin me,” he concluded darkly. “But if someone gets hold of those tapes… Oh, God,” he moaned.

“Did you… were you… did you do something to Suz Craig?”

“Of course not, what the hell do you think I am?”

Well, that was what we didn’t know, wasn’t it? “I honestly don’t know where the tapes are, Ralph. And John Richard’s out on bail. You could give him or his office a call. But his secretary is frantic with the mess, and there’s no telling what kind of emotional state John Richard is in. If I were you, I’d stay away from both of them.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not me.”

At the LakeCenter the Babsie-doll show was in full swing. The security guard, even more hung over today than before, grunted a question about whether my assistant would be helping me, because he had strict orders not to let “that young fellow” near the dolls. I kept my patience and told him my assistant would not be accompanying me today. The armed guard escorted me past the display tables, where shiny arrays of statuesque, ultraslender, elaborately coiffed Babsies in lacy, sequined gowns elicited choruses of oohs and aahs from the crush of excited visitors. Even I was impressed, especially when I saw the price tags.

At the appointed time, I passed out box lunches on the patio to women clutching blue lunch tickets. While they ate, I indulged in a more detailed tour of the show. One table was dedicated solely to Holiday Babsies from 1990 to the present. All the dolls belonged to Gail Rodine. All were marked “Not for Sale.” The costumes were festive and fantastic: tiny rhinestones glistened above shimmery red and green taffeta gowns; white furs set off dark velvet evening dresses. Another table featured Babsie as astronaut, Babsie as veterinarian, Babsie as a prima ballerina, Babsie horseback riding, Babsie walking her poodle on the Champs-Elysees, even Babsie as President. All that was missing was Babsie as Elvis. A long aisle was devoted to Babsie accessories. I looked with awe at teensy-weensy toreador pants; high heels; sequined leotards; compartmentalized Babsie suitcases; flip-curled wigs in blond, black, brunette, and red hair; and sexy lingerie that befit the Babsie Massage Parlor. As Donny Saunders would say, Whoo-ie!

The few attendees not indulging in box lunches were cooing over a table on the far side of the ballroom. When I joined them, I realized their drooling wasn’t from craving my cucumber-brioche sandwiches. Their eyes were greedily fixed on a display of a single Babsie. I stared at the display: Babsie in a “Japanese exclusive” gown. I didn’t know if that meant the gown was made or sold in Japan or both. No matter. I was transfixed by the miniature image of a fashion plate.

Babsie’s blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and bow-shaped mouth were demure, and her long, perfect blond coif did not reveal a single flyaway strand. The bodice and skirt of the tiny full-length gown were made of snowy white satin, and the toes of itsy-bitsy pink high heels peeked out at the hem. A hot-pink embroidered chiffon overskirt pouffed and swirled above the white satin. A miniature stole of the same pink fabric hugged the doll’s shoulders, while a choker of minuscule pink pearls decorated her neck. Very nice, I thought appreciatively, the sort of thing you’d wear to an inaugural ball or a royal wedding. Then I looked at this Babsie’s price tag: three thousand dollars. When the woman next to me asked if I didn’t think it was just unbelievable, I said, “Yes, incredible beyond words.” Never let it be said that I was a caterer who couldn’t appreciate her clients’ hobbies.

The first woman said, “The dealer said to me, ‘How can you refuse this adorable doll?’ Now I feel as if this poor doll is a refugee who will starve if I don’t buy her!” A tear slid down one of her cheeks.

A second woman whispered, “I’ve got a spy in France. You should see my phone bills. But when the French Babsies come out – you know, the ones we can’t get? – I have my spy get it. She airmails it in a plain brown wrapper. For security. It costs me, but it’s worth it.”

John le Carre, eat your heart out. I tore myself away from the dolls and returned to the patio. In a large plastic garbage bag I collected dirty cups, wrappers, used plastic spoons, and empty miniature wine bottles. Suddenly the cormorants near the shore rose in a frenzied flutter, and I was dimly aware of a distant wap wap wap wap wap.

I sat on one of the patio benches and squinted at the sky. Wap wap wap, louder and louder. In the summer, this was the most dreaded sound in Aspen Meadow. It was the Flight-for-Life helicopter. Usually the only time you heard it was when someone, frequently a child, had drowned, fallen while rock climbing, or been lost for hours after straying from a wilderness hike.

I trotted to the Dumpster near the lake and lofted in the trash bag. The helicopter circled near Main Street. That was odd. The copter appeared to be hovering over Cottonwood Creek, not too far from our house. I reached into my apron pocket for the portable cellular phone I took to events and shakily punched in our number, reminding myself that not all disasters in Aspen Meadow had to involve me.

One second, two seconds, three… then the phone connected and Arch answered on the first ring. “I’m okay, Mom.”

“How did you – ?”

“Are you kidding? All you do is worry about me. I heard the helicopter a minute ago and called Marla to make sure she wasn’t having another heart attack. She’d already found out what was going on. Somebody was in an explosion. A grill at the park blew up. They think some mountain moths built a nest in the vent. Then when the person lit the propane, the grill exploded, just like Frances Markasian wrote about in the paper. Oh, wait, there’s the other line. Maybe it’s Marla again.”

I watched the slow sweep of the second hand on my watch while I waited for Arch to come back on the line. As usual, I tried to reconstruct where Tom was –

“Oh, Mom,” Arch said, his voice subdued. “Marla says that, you know, she survived the explosion, but she’s burned and bloody – “

“Who survived, Arch?” I was frantic. “Marla?”

“Oh, no, Mom. The person trying to light the grill… the person who got hurt… . It was ReeAnn.”

21

I asked Arch how Macguire was doing. He was asleep. I asked if Arch had heard from his father. He said no. I told him to make sure that all the windows were closed and that the security system was armed. And stay inside, I said. It wasn’t a logical order, it was an emotional one, a fact my son hotly pointed out. I told him I’d be home in less than an hour. Then I disconnected and called Tom.

He wasn’t at his office. I checked my watch: two o’clock. Rather than leave a message, I redialed the department and asked to speak with Sergeant Beiner. When she answered, I identified myself and told her what had happened.

“Hold on,” she said. In the background she rustled paper. “This ReeAnn? Korman’s secretary, right?” I insisted that this accident involving ReeAnn had to be related somehow to Suz Craig’s murder.

Calmly, Sergeant Beiner said, “How?”

I bit the inside of my cheek and watched the cormorants land back on the lake. A hummingbird soared and then dipped to sip the nectar from a nearby poppy. “How,” I repeated not so patiently to Sergeant Beiner, “could an accident involving ReeAnn Collins relate to Suz Craig? John Richard might have thought she killed Suz and decided to punish her. Aah … maybe somebody thinks ReeAnn has possession of something incriminating.”

“Hmm,” said Sergeant Beiner, clearly unconvinced.

I told her I knew about Suz secretly taping meetings. I added that Donny Saunders and Chris Corey had reported that some tapes were missing. Maybe somebody thought ReeAnn had them. Maybe Patricia McCracken or Ralph Shelton or somebody was so desperate for the missing tapes that they had tried to blow ReeAnn up. Sergeant Beiner said that these people had all known ReeAnn for some time, why do something to her now?

“I don’t know,” I replied persistently. “Maybe because of the tapes. But there is a connection, I’m certain of it.”

“Goldy,” advised Sergeant Beiner, “take a breather.”

“Please help me,” I begged her. “I know you usually keep the families of those affected apprised of the progress of an investigation… Can’t you please help us, just so we’ll stay informed and my son won’t have so much anxiety?”

For a moment she was silent. Then she said tersely, “Patricia McCracken I don’t know about. She called this morning to get an update on the criminal investigation so she can decide what to do about her civil suits. I just called her back an hour ago. Now” – there was a rustle of pages and I knew she was consulting her notes – ” Amy Bartholomew was interviewed by Donny Saunders this morning. Ms. Bartholomew told him she was leaving to go camping alone for a few days in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve, and that you were the one who told her to get away for a while. Maybe she didn’t go, but I don’t think that she had any grudge against ReeAnn Collins that was life-threatening. Do you?”

“I guess not.” “As for Dr. Korman, he’s out on bail, as you no doubt are aware. You might want to put your efforts into recalling that judge in the next election.” She paused. “I don’t know about Ralph Shelton. We’ll have somebody go up and talk to him. But I have to tell you, it’s going to be a while.”

“Okay.” I felt defeated, not because I wanted Amy or Patricia or Ralph or somebody at ACHMO or even John Richard to have hurt ReeAnn, but because I was completely confused. I mumbled an apology to Sergeant Beiner for bothering her and hung up.

I raced back to the LakeCenter and finished cleaning up the box lunches. Occasionally, I reflected as I stooped to pick up the last of the trash the visitors had left, I have a great culinary idea that fails. But before I know things aren’t going to work out, the inspiration stokes my energy and makes my brain fire on all cylinders. Blue cheese pizza was the product of such thinking. Coffeecake swirled with frozen pitted Bing cherries was another, as was sausages baked with apples and hominy. They were all failures. I’d gagged on the too-salty pizza. The coffeecake turned first inky, then mushy, then inedible. And when Arch had had two bites of the sausage concoction, he’d asked if we could go to Burger King for breakfast.

Most of my food ideas and experiments succeed. But it’s hard to bear that in mind when the failures occur. And instead of responding to these setbacks with an optimistic, Thomas Edison-style, now-l-know-what-doesn’t-work attitude, I usually feel frustrated and angry that I spent time and money on ingredients yielding such disasters. Worse, the anguish accompanying the failures always plunges me into a psychological well of uncertitude. Questions like Are you really in the right line of work? and Who do you think you are, anyway? taunt me. Eventually, of course, I always pull myself together, toss the messes in the garbage, and go on to the next concoction.

It was that pulling-together time that I now longed for. Poor ReeAnn.

When I pressed the buttons on our security system and entered our home, the warmth inside brought a small lift in my spirits. It’s not so bad, I told myself. ReeAnn was alive, if injured. I was upholding my promise to Arch. I was trying to find out what really had happened to Suz Craig. I didn’t want to clear the Jerk, I didn’t even care if anything ever exonerated him. But I did want to know what had happened, and why, so that when they hauled John Richard off for an extended prison stay, I could tell Arch with a clear conscience that I had done my darnedest.

I called Lutheran Hospital and asked to check on the condition of ReeAnn Collins. Since I was not family, I was told, the information could not be divulged. Upstairs, Arch and Macguire were listening to what could advisedly be called music. Macguire showed me a huge box of imported chocolates that Marla had brought over. She’d told the boys she was going down to Lutheran Hospital to check on ReeAnn personally, and she’d call me later. I knew she’d get the info. When Marla told people she was a family member, they rarely argued.

The boys offered me a wrapped Mozartkügel and I took it. It was somewhat ironic that the only way these two would acknowledge the classical masters of music was through candy. Within moments I more chocolate bulged in their cheeks and noise blared down our street. I thought again of Schoenberg’s mother and retreated hastily to my kitchen.

I booted up my computer and went through the file I’d opened on the circumstances surrounding Suz Craig’s death. What significance could ReeAnn have to the murder of Suz Craig? What was the link? I couldn’t see any, apart from the fact that ReeAnn had known all about the Jerk’s affairs, and probably a great deal about Suz’s as well.

I scrolled back through my computer file and reread an early entry, where I summarized the catering job I’d done at Suz’s house in July. It had been a clear, sunlit day, with clouds piling up over the mountains to the west and birds flitting among the blue campanula and columbine. Suz had been nervous about the appearance of her yard with its unfinished landscaping. She’d fretted about the weather, since she hadn’t wanted the ACHMO honchos to be soaked by an unexpected mountain shower. She’d shown little interest in the food preparation and presentation. To me this said: Career woman whose postcollege path did not detour through the kitchen. Which was just fine. That kind of client uncritically appreciates my work, even thinks of it as a kind of magic. Suz had appeared cheerful, but she had not really enjoyed the food. And when Chris Corey had fallen down the steps, she’d been distraught.

All of this begged the question I’d never thought to ask in the first place: Why had the Minneapolis people been visiting in July? The people at the party had certainly made no mention of an annual review, audit, or meeting. In retrospect, that seemed strange. When I’d asked one visiting staff member what had brought him out to Denver, I’d received a noncommittal response along the lines of “Fighting fires.” Exactly what kind of fire? Suz’s guests had all been from Human Resources at ACHMO headquarters, that much I knew. I did have a foodie buddy in the Denver ACHMO HR office. But the last time I’d seen Brandon Yuille, at John Richard’s office, he had been upset with me for not telling him where the Jerk would hide something. Now I realized he’d probably been referring to the missing meeting tapes, as well as notes about the malpractice and negligence suits. I felt guilty all over again for snapping at him, and resolved to be reconciled before asking him more about Suz.

To keep my promise to Tom, I knew I couldn’t pay Brandon a visit at the ACHMO office itself. Not that they’d let the ex-wife of the man accused of murdering their vice-president through the doors. So instead I phoned Brandon’s office and again identified myself: Goldy Schulz, the caterer, the friend of Brandon’s. Once more Brandon’s secretary was either well-trained or just her usual wary self. She asked the nature of my call.

“I need to apologize to him for a misunderstanding we had. Also, I’d like to talk to him about a lunch I catered a while ago,” I replied. I avoided mentioning the name of Suz Craig. “We talked about Thai food and fudge, remind him of that. I have a couple of questions about the event itself.”

There was a pause. “Aah,” the secretary said finally, with mock regretfulness, “it looks as if Mr. Yuille will be in a meeting for the next three days.”

“Don’t they ever take breaks?” I asked good-naturedly. “This won’t take long.”

She didn’t respond immediately. I had the feeling she was looking straight at Brandon, who was vigorously shaking his head. At length she stiffly announced, “I can connect you with Mr. Yuille’s voice mail, if you’d like.”

I assented and briefly told the recorded voice that I was trying to help my son deal with his father being arrested by keeping him informed about the murder investigation. Could Brandon forgive me for being short with him at Korman’s office? And could he satisfy my curiosity, tell me why the Minneapolis HR team at Suz’s house had come to Denver in the first place? Finally, did he happen to know if anyone had it in for John Richard’s secretary, ReeAnn Collins, who’d just been badly injured in a barbecue incident?

Well, I thought as I hung up, that ought to either ruin our friendship or take it to a whole new level. I had the disconcerting feeling that I’d been too pushy. Moreover, whether any useful information would come out of my requests was, it seemed at this point, extremely questionable.

I wanted to cook. But my growling stomach announced I was too hungry to concentrate. I’d had nothing to eat in the last eight hours except a piece of toast, coffee, and a Mozartkügel. Looking around, I dove into the container of Chocolate Comfort Cookies like a madwoman. Although I’ve read accounts of how addicts heighten their drug experiences, in my opinion nothing beats a large mouthful of dark, velvety chocolate on an empty stomach. I closed my eyes, bit into the cookie, and waited for the rush. An ecstasy of shivers began in the small of my back. I sighed with chocoholic contentment Now I was ready to face whatever the rest of the day cared to deliver.

According to my catering calendar, the following morning – Wednesday – Gail Rodine’s doll-club board of directors wanted a fancy breakfast by the lake. I’d promised her baked scrambled eggs with cream cheese and shrimp, fruit kebabs, honey-cured ham, and an assortment of breads. My supplier had delivered the meat last Friday. I heaved the plump, bone-in ham onto the counter to check if it had been spiral-cut as I’d ordered. It was, and would only need heating in the morning. The eggs and shrimp I would assemble at the LakeCenter, but the breads needed to be organized today.

I had two large loaves of the brioche left over from the box lunches, plus several dozen dark pumpernickel rolls that I’d made and frozen particularly’ for this event. But one more bread was needed to round things out. Experimenting to put together a delectable new bread for an upscale breakfast? Please don’t throw me in the briar patch. Thomas Edison, here I come. I knew I could do it. I scanned the walk-in pensively.

In the use-up-stray-ingredients economy that good caterers invariably subscribe to, I noted egg whites left over from making the Babsie Tarts, a couple of oranges that I’d ordered along with the lemons, and several unopened jars of poppy seeds. I pounced on these ingredients. I’d assemble a cake-like orange poppy-seed bread. Or die in the attempt.

As always, cooking lifted me from the doldrums. While the egg whites were whipped into a froth, I measured the dry ingredients and then delighted in the fine spray of citrus oil that slicked my fingers when I scraped the zest from the oranges. I Outside, the sun shone brilliantly in a deep blue sky and a warm breeze swished through the aspens. I opened the window over the sink. The boys’ music reverberated along the street. Out back Jake howled an accompaniment. I smiled. If the music made the boys happy, I wasn’t going to say a thing.

I was folding the poppy seeds into the batter when John Richard Korman jumped in front of the window. I screamed and dropped the bowl in the sink. The bowl shattered. Jake howled. Locked out back, the dog couldn’t help me. I’d disarmed the security system. I hadn’t turned it back on. Oh, God.

Unthinking, I wheeled around wildly for the phone. But by then John Richard had pulled off the screen, reached through the window, and grabbed my wrist.

“Let go!” I cried as I wrenched my hand back. “Go away!” I screamed. He lurched up through the window, with my wrist still in a death grip. His free hand slapped my face. He smelled like whiskey.

“Shut up!” he growled. “I’m telling you, Goldy,” he said in a menacing voice as I opened my mouth to scream again, “shut the hell up. I want to talk to you. I want to talk to Arch. Let me in.”

Instead I pushed hard to try to get him out. Mercilessly, he twisted my wrist. I cried out in pain. Again he told me to shut the hell up. Then he yanked my hand over the window frame. Blood spurted from my forearm where the skin scraped against the metal. Poor Jake howled to no avail. My abdomen pressed painfully against the sink. My feet barely touched the floor.

“Who wrote that shit on my house?” He twisted harder on my wrist. “The neighbors say you know. Who was it?”

“Vandals.” I put my free hand on my face, trying to protect it from another slap. “Vandals. The sheriff’s department doesn’t know who they were. They can’t find them. This isn’t a good idea,” I warned him. “Just go away. I promise I won’t tell Tom.”

“Why didn’t you open your door when I knocked?”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I said, ‘Why didn’t you open your door when I knocked?’ “

“I told you… agh …” Pain shot through my wrist again. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Bullshit. Listen. I didn’t kill her, Goldy.” With his other hand he seized my chin and forced me to look in his eyes. “I did not kill Suz Craig. She’d been reprimanded” – another tug on my arm made me squeal – “by the Minneapolis people and faced being fired We had a fight, but 1Ididn’t kill her. They killed her.” His fingers bit into my wrist so savagely that I whimpered.

“Tell the cops,” I gasped. “Tell… your lawyer.”

“I did! I just wanted to tell you!”

His handsome face twisted in rage. I knew he would hit me again. I was panicked about the two boys upstairs. I couldn’t let Arch see us like this again. I wouldn’t let the Jerk hurt me like this again. Stunned with pain, I frantically searched for something – any thing – to rescue me. There was no knife in sight.

Through gritted teeth he said, “I want to talk to that kid you have living here. Perkins. I think he painted my house. “

Pain shot through my arm. I squirmed to get some leverage against the sink.

“For-get it!” I screamed. With my left hand I seized the heavy piece of ham on the counter. I swung the meat up, then down on top of John Richard’s head. The meat glanced off his forehead and his eyes rolled up in his head. Releasing my wrist, he stumbled backward. I lurched for the phone, dropped it, retrieved it, pressed 911. I shouted that I had an intruder, my ex-husband, John Richard Korman.

I screamed, “He hurt me! I’m bleeding!”

“Is he there now?” The 911 operator spoke calmly.

I scrambled for the window in time to see John Richard, one hand clutching his temple, limping toward the street. “Yes, yes, but he’s leaving! Hurry!” I yelled. “Quickly! Come and get him and take him away!”

But I already knew it was too late. The Jeep roared and he was gone.

22

I closed and locked the window. Outside, Jake had not stopped his incessant howling. I let him in through the back door. He bounded over to me immediately, whining, putting his muzzle up to my face, trying to lick it. I floundered into the bathroom to wash the blood off my arm. Unfortunately, the sound of sirens brought Arch and Macguire rushing down the stairs.

The bloody fingers of my left hand pressed the lock on the bathroom door. I couldn’t talk to anyone just yet. When the boys called, I responded by saying I’d be there in a minute. I looked dreadful. My face was blotchy; my right cheek bore the scarlet imprint of John Richard’s hand. I turned the cold water all the way up and splashed and resplashed my face. It had been a long time since the Jerk had treated me like this. Our house boasted a security system, a bloodhound, and a live-in policeman. Tone of these had helped.

Would we ever be safe?

The next hour passed in a daze. At my insistence, Arch and Macguire went back upstairs. The two policemen who came to the door, both deputies I did not know, asked if I could tell them where John Richard had gone. I gave them his address in the country club and begged not to have to go down to the department to make my statement. The deputies instructed me to write down exactly what had happened. As I was scribbling, one of the cops called Tom, who was not at his desk. The other took the ham into evidence. I almost laughed, but I couldn’t stop trembling enough to do so.

By contacting and attacking a witness in the homicide investigation in which he’d been charged, John Richard had gotten himself into deep trouble. When the sheriff’s department located him, they would arrest him again. Somehow knowing this did not make me feel much better. All I could think of was Arch.

I took a shower, changed into fresh clothes, and searched for my son. I found him on a portable phone in his room. Judging from his confidential tone, he was talking to his buddy Todd. When I knocked on the door, he quickly disconnected.

“May I come in?”

I could tell he felt horrible. His voice cracked when he whispered, “Mom, are you okay?”

“No, hon, I’m really not.”

“I didn’t even have a chance to see him.”

“I know.”

Arch slumped morosely on his bed, his lips pressed together. Finally he said, “I just feel as if it’s so hopeless. You promised you’d help him and – “

“I have tried to help him,” I interrupted, carefuI to keep my tone soothing. “Not because of anything good he’s done, but because I promised you that I would – “

“Excuse me, Mom, but you have not helped him. He says he didn’t kill Ms. Craig. I believe him.”

“Arch, please. I have spent the last three days on the telephone asking questions, going around talking to people, and – “

Behind the glasses, his eyes burned ferociously. “And what have you found out? Nothing!” Guiltily, he softened his tone. “I know you want him to go to prison. In your heart.”

Poor, miserable Arch. It didn’t help that he was probably right. I did want John Richard in prison, where he couldn’t hurt another woman. I said patiently, “I am waiting for people to call me back. I can’t make people talk to me.”

He got up and slid halfway under his bed. When he inched back out, he was clutching his backpack. “Sorry, Mom, but I’m going to live with the Druckmans for a while. At least until Dad’s hearing. Todd’s mother said it was okay.” He opened a drawer and began pulling out shorts and shins. “If I hadn’t been here, Dad never would have come around and started hitting you. He was probably looking for me.”

“Honey, please, please don’t go.”

“This way,” my son continued, avoiding my eyes, “we won’t have another big mess with the police coming over. Please leave my room now, Mom.”

He’d ordered me from his room. He wouldn’t speak to me. He refused to even listen. I retreated to my kitchen, where I sat in silent shock for ten minutes. Then I called the Druckmans to apologize for my son being a freeloader and to see if I could at least bring over some food. Kathleen Druckman assured me that she was happy to have Arch for as long as he wanted to stay. I didn’t need to deliver any meals, either, she said with a laugh, she’d be insulted. She and her husband would even take Arch down to the jail to see his father. And was it true that John Richard had knocked me unconscious with a whole poached salmon? I said no, thanked her again, and hung up.

Macguire had left a note taped to my computer: Going out for a walk, hope you’re okay. See you at dinner. Can we have pizza? Not even Macguire’s renewed appetite cut through my misery. When Arch slammed out the front door, I almost burst into tears. Instead, I dialed Tom’s number.

It was four o’clock. He wasn’t there, so I left a very brief voice-mail message. John Richard had been here. Both Arch and I were okay. If he wanted more information, he could talk to the officers who, I hoped, would have arrested John Richard by the time he got this message.

The memory of the Jerk’s slap rushed back into my consciousness. But what had he shrieked about Suz Craig? She’d been reprimanded. For what? I put in another call to Brandon Yuille. He was the Human Resources person, after all. Unfortunately, he again refused to speak to me except through hi secretary. I told her to ask Brandon if the ACHMO bigwigs were about to fire Suz Craig and if so, why: And remind him, I said, that I was sorry we’d had a misunderstanding. Also that I had a close personal relationship with the investigative journalist of the Mountain Journal and she’d just love to start bothering him for an interview. I hung up with a bang that did nothing to improve my mood.

I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen left from my fracas with the Jerk. To fulfill Macguire’s request, I mixed up some pizza dough and set it aside to rise. I called my supplier to see about replacing the ham and got her machine. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I started over on the orange poppy-seed bread.

This time, just as I was again at the fateful point of folding in the poppy seeds, the phone rang. I thought it might be Marla or Tom or even Brandon Yuille getting back to me, but I was wrong. To my surprise, it was Patricia McCracken.

“Well,” she demanded breathlessly, as if none of the sorry events of the last three days had ever transpired and we were still happy confidantes, “what have you found out?”

“About what?” I gently scraped a poppy seed-speckled pillow of the light, moist batter into a buttered and floured loaf pan.

“About John Richard, silly! Has he gotten himself into any more trouble?”

“Like what?” I really did not want to discuss this. Any info I gave Patricia would be all over Aspen Meadow in an hour, given her feud with the Jerk. At least she hadn’t heard the crazy story about him hitting me with a salmon.

“My neighbor’s son was driving by the park when the helicopter came down. I heard ReeAnn was burned over three-fourths of her body.” she continued. “Was she with John Richard? You don’t know what happened with that, do you?”

This was the woman who had complained so bitterly to me about our community’s obsession-with-disaster? Incredible. Some people just can’t see themselves as fostering the very problem they’re griping about.

“I can’t talk, Patricia,” I responded. “I need to finish making some bread.”

Bitterly, she said, “You’re not much help,” and hung up.

Not much help. Well, wasn’t that what everyone was saying about me these days? I slid the bread into the oven, then rebooted my computer and added According to the Jerk, Suz was reprimanded by ACHMO HQ honchos to my list of what I knew about her. A brief time later, I took the golden-brown bread out and placed it on a rack. It perfumed the kitchen with its rich, orangey scent. Macguire arrived home as I was feeding the dog and the cat. I assured him I was just fine and told him I’d be kneading cloverleaf rolls in no time. He looked skeptically at the slap marks on my face and the thick bandage I’d placed over my forearm. But unlike Patricia McCracken, he was too polite to say anything.

Tom arrived shortly after six, bearing vegetarian calzones and a deep-dish sausage pizza. He unloaded the food, gently examined my face and arm, and cursed John Richard. He carefully punched down the mass of pizza dough I’d already made, zipped it into a heavy-duty plastic bag, and popped it into the freezer. When he finished unwrapping the Italian feast, I felt tears prick hard.

“Please, Goldy, don’t, don’t,” he crooned as he gathered me up in his arms. “What you’ve been through… I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I feel like I failed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh, Tom. Arch has gone to live with the Druckmans until John Richard’s hearing.”

“He’ll be back,” he said confidently.

I let him hold me. “All this food,” I muttered finally, “it’s going to get cold.”

He held me out at arm’s length. His warm green eyes gave me a skeptical look. “That’s what I brought my convection oven into this house for, remember? You like pizza, don’t you? Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else?”

You like pizza? “Sure,” I said uncertainly, and sat down at the table while Tom preheated the oven and opened a bottle of Chianti. I shivered. Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else? Tom had gently asked.

My afternoon encounter with John Richard had brought another assault of memories I thought I’d repressed. One time, I had tried to serve pizza made by somebody else. Arch had been three months old and sick with a painful ear infection. Exhausted from being up with him all night and then all day, I’d ordered a pizza for dinner. John Richard had thrown a fit, of course. He’d torn the pizza into bits and dumped them in the garbage disposal. If he’d wanted takeout pizza, he’d shouted, he would have stayed single.

Without being asked, Macguire set the kitchen table. Not one of us mentioned my son. Arch must have told Macguire his plans to live with the Druckmans. Again, Macguire was too polite to mention it.

The strange thing about going through a difficult time is that eventually, you get hungry. The Italian sausage on the pizza Tom had brought home provided a sharp, juicy complement to the crunchy crust. The calzones were so stuffed with steaming tomatoes, onions, peppers, and cheese that it was hard to take a bite without making a mess. By the time we finished eating, my mood had lifted somewhat.

“Something I need to discuss with you all,” Tom said in the gentle voice he used whenever he needed to drop a bombshell.

I said, “Uh-oh.”

“The deputies couldn’t find John Richard,” he announced matter-of-factly. “He wasn’t at his house. There’s an APB out on him, but you need to know he’s at large.”

“That sucks,” Macguire said. “It’s probably just as well Arch is at the Druckmans’,” Tom continued. “Here at home, we need to keep the windows shut all the time. Turn on the attic fan if you need ventilation. But the security system stays armed. I mean it.”

I rubbed my temples and tried to give myself a silent pep talk. No uplifting thoughts came. When Macguire offered to do the dishes, Tom and I consented gratefully. Upstairs, the Chianti and relaxing meal finally took effect. No matter how bad the news is, not only do you have to eat, you eventually have to sleep. I hadn’t slept well since I’d discovered Suz Craig’s body. I yawned.

“Put on your pajamas,” Tom ordered with a loving smile, “and let me rub your back.”

“It’s not even eight o’clock.” “Miss G., let me take care of you. No fussing.” I winced as I pulled the pajama sleeve over my bruised arm, then remembered the arnica and antidepression herbs from Amy Bartholomew and slid the tablets and capsules onto the table next to the bed. Before I could take any, though, I had to ask my husband a few questions.

“Tom,” I said as I lay carefully on my stomach, “where could John Richard be?”

“Aw, he’s someplace he thinks is safe. With friends, probably. I don’t think he’d dare come after you. Not after today.”

“Beg to differ.” After a moment I said, “Arch doesn’t think I’m looking into the charges against his father. After all I’ve done, that almost hurts more than anything.”

Tom’s large hands pressed and massaged my aching body. “He’s a kid, Goldy. He just doesn’t understand. Cut him some slack.”

“I’ve cut him tons of slack. He just hasn’t cut any for me.”

Tom chose not to respond to this. Under his hands my weary muscles began to relax. I felt my eyes closing.

“I’ve got something else to ask you,” I said weakly.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk.”

“Has anybody at ACHMO told you Suz was about to be fired? Or why?”

He chuckled. “Korman sure claimed that in his interview. But he was the only one who mentioned it, and he can’t prove a thing. Everyone else swears her job was secure.”

“Ah,” I said. I downed the herb capsules and slipped the arnica under my tongue. A few minutes later, I did not resist when sleep claimed me.

I awoke at two A.M. in such a state of alertness that I felt sure Arch had come home, the security alarm had gone off, or either Scout or Jake was scratching to go out. None of these was the case. I looked out the window: the night was still. No breeze or rush of creekwater was audible, of course, as every single window in the house was locked up tight. I turned on the dresser light and saw a note from Tom. Miss G., Arch called before he went to bed. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. He wanted to tell you good night and that he loved you. Also, Marla phoned. ReeAnn C. is banged up pretty good but they think she’s going to pull through. T.

Peachy. But it was not worries about Arch or even ReeAnn that had awakened me. It was something else.

If Suz Craig was about to be fired, or was even in danger of being fired, how could that relate to her being murdered? And why had Brandon Yuille, my buddy-in-Thai-food, refused to answer any of my calls? Was he still annoyed about our conversation at the Jerk’s office, despite my apologies? John Richard was on the loose, but I doubted he was watching our house. I slipped on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. During the day, Brandon could refuse to return my calls all he wanted. But at this hour, I knew exactly where to find him.

23

The Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop had undergone a sea change since Mickey Yuille, my old master baker friend, had bought it, refurbished it, and hired an energetic cleaning service. Lacy, pristinely white European-style curtains now hung in the windows. The glass display cases, formerly messy with weeks of fingerprints, gleamed spotlessly in the dimmed light of the cozy dining room. The former owner had offered a hodgepodge of almost-stale cookies and partially baked pastry shells. These had been replaced by appetizing rows of truffles, chocolate-dipped macaroons, and French cream cookies so buttery, they gave new meaning to melt-in-your-mouth.

Since it was a quarter past two in the morning, I stopped lusting over the offerings in the dark shop-front and looked for movement in the kitchen. An oblong of yellow light illuminated Mickey hustling back and forth. As I sidled across the front window to get a better view, I caught sight of Brandon. He sat at a long table, gesturing as he spoke earnestly to his father. The back door had been left partially open, probably to bring cool night air into the oven-heated space.

I nipped past the comics shop, the insurance agent’s office, and the Christian Science Reading Room. I rounded the back of the building and came noiselessly up to the back entrance with its open door. Mickey had suggested I come by for some fresh, hot cinnamon rolls. Now the unmistakable scent of that most prized of spices, Indonesian cinnamon, came wafting out into the darkness. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Howdy all,” I said brightly, as if I customarily popped into closed bakeries at two A.M. “I had insomnia, so I just thought I’d drop in.”

Mickey, balding, shrunken, but with a smile so endearing he always reminded me of a stuffed troll, looked up from the thick layer of golden dough he was rolling out. “Goldy! So glad to see you!” He set aside his marble rolling pin and bustled forward to embrace me. He smelled marvelous, sweat mixed with spice and flour. His long white apron dusted my outfit. I grinned and returned his hug, then looked over at Brandon. His handsome face was no longer set in its usual impish expression. He looked as if a monsoon had arrived at his doorstep.

“Morning, Brandon,” I said pleasantly. “So glad I could run into you here. I’ve been trying to call you to apologize for our misunderstanding at my ex-husband’s office.”

His shiny dark hair fell in his face and he immediately brushed it back. “Sure, okay, no hard feelings,” he mumbled without visible enthusiasm. “Glad to see you.”

“Coffee, coffee, let’s have some fresh,” said Mickey, obviously glad of my company, even if his son was not.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” I asked Brandon as I sat in one of the chairs at his father’s worktable. Out of earshot, Mickey ran water and measured out ground coffee.

“I can’t call you back,” Brandon rejoined. “They are watching me every second. I’m afraid every call of mine is monitored. .

. .”

“Who’s ‘they’? Who would monitor your calls?” Brandon’s handsome face screwed up in dismay. “The same guys who were here before, from the headquarters office of Human Resources. They’ve come back in from Minneapolis until the preliminary hearing with your ex is over. I’m telling you, Goldy, it’s a bad scene.”

“You think that’s a bad scene? My fourteen. year-old son has moved out until the preliminary hearing. That’s how ticked off with me he is over this case. I want to find out what the hell is going on with my son’s father a whole lot more than your corporate bigwigs do.” He said nothing. “Please, Brandon. Please help us.”

Brandon exhaled unhappily. “Whatever I tell you, you’ve got to say you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Brandon, for heaven’s sake! You didn’t participate in any illegal activity, did you?”

His smile was a younger, less wrinkled version of his father’s. “Of course not. No illegal activity. I didn’t even kill Suz Craig, as is believed in some circles.”

“What circles?”

His face turned pink. “Oh, you know. The gossip mill.”

“Was she about to be fired by ACHMO when she was killed?”

His father reappeared with the coffee. It was marvelous, dark and hearty. We took grateful sips and showered praise and thanks on Mickey.

“You all go ahead and visit,” Mickey told us. He eyed the rectangle of dough. “I gotta work.”

“Can’t we help you?” I offered. Cloth towels shrouded the domed top of another enormous bowl of risen dough.

“Naw, naw,” Mickey replied, waving a floured paw. “The priest is doing grief work with me. Says I gotta work. Stay busy. Best antidote. I like having you here, though.”

I looked back at Brandon, who shrugged. He murmured, “Just let him. He knows what he needs. I’m here for company. When I help him, it’s usually on the weekends.”

“Was Suz about to be fired?” I asked Brandon again. “Or had she been submitted to some kind of disciplinary action?”

Brandon sipped his coffee and was silent. For a moment I feared he’d decided not to answer. “Not exactly reprimanded. She was… being observed. In her dealings with people.” I waited for him to go on. He shifted in the wooden chair. “Headquarters had had a lot of complaints.” He seemed to go into a trance as he watched his father spread butter on the rolled dough.

“Complaints from whom?” I prompted. Brandon blinked and shrugged. “Everybody who’d ever had to work with Suz Craig.”

When he seemed in danger of going into another trance, I said, “Amy Bartholomew said the same thing. She said Suz set a trap for her. Amy wanted to control her own destiny, as she put it, and Suz had other ideas. Suz accused Amy of compulsively feeding the slots up at Central City. Then Suz tried to make it impossible for Amy to buy the health-food store.”

Brandon’s eyes were on his father as he sprinkled dark cinnamon sugar over the golden dough. “Yeah, I know. I’m the very young, very unsuccessful head of Human Resources, remember?”

“Amy said Suz criticized you for spending too much time here with your father and for coming into the office too tired to do good work. She criticized Chris Corey, too.”

“Oh, boy, don’t remind me.” He looked at the ceiling. “Chris was putting together a new Provider Relations Manual. He’s very thorough, and Suz kept changing the language of certain guidelines. It was her fault he missed the deadline. But she threw a fit anyway, in front of everybody.”

“Did she criticize Ralph Shelton?”

“Of course,” he said simply “She told us she was putting together a file of patient complaints, plus a critical letter from her, into a packet to go to MeritMed.”

“Why would she do that? He already told me that was why he was fired.”

“Who knows? Plus, Goldy, I’m not convinced she should have fired him. Every doctor gets unhappy patients. Last year, the state board of medical examiners received over seven hundred and fifty complaints. Eighty-five percent were dismissed.” He sighed. “And then Shelton was so pathetic, calling each of us after she fired him, to see if we could stop her from sending the packet of complaints on. We all suspected Shelton was trying to renew his old friendship with Korman to get him to prevent her from sending the packet to Shelton’s new employers at MeritMed. But apparently Korman repeatedly gave Shelton the brush-off through that cute secretary of his.”

“Sort of the way you gave me the brush-off today.”

“Sorry. I really was in a meeting.”

“Did Suz criticize and threaten John Richard, too?”

Brandon’s large brown eyes and narrow face suddenly seemed overcome with sadness. “She could be the warmest, most loving person you could ever imagine.” He paused and looked away. “She could also be vicious. Every day when I drove into that parking lot, my stomach would clench. What kind of mood was she going to be in today? What would she try to do to me? How could I fend her off?”

“Did she want to have control over John Richard?” I persisted.

He frowned, then shook his head. “Who knew? He didn’t share much with us, you know, the administrators. Suz’s control of information was what concerned her, and she was good at it.” His forehead wrinkled. “I did hear that Korman’s billing was problematic, and that he didn’t automatically qualify for a bonus he was expecting.”

“Who told you those tidbits?” When he shrugged, I went on. “Where do the ACHMO honchos come in? Why were they here last month? One of them told me they were fighting fires.”

“Thank you so very much,” I told Mickey. “You can’t imagine how much I appreciate this.”

He poured me more hot coffee. “Of course I do. Food-service people are the last ones to sit down and actually enjoy eating anything. Besides, I love the company, as Brandon can tell you. I’m about to make some sour-cream cakes now… . You two need anything else?”

“Thanks, Dad. No,” said Brandon warmly as he squeezed his father’s hand. For the first time I noticed the bags under Brandon’s eyes. His schedule must be brutal, I thought. He’d told the cops he went to bed at eight P.M. every night so that he could be here by two A.M. It wasn’t a regimen I would want to follow on any long-term basis, especially since I’d tried it for the last few nights and now felt like a walking zombie.

“I’m going to leave in a few minutes,” I told Brandon. “I think I understand better now why everyone, especially my ex, had trouble with this woman. It’s hard to believe that Suz would threaten you with changing your medical records, though. Couldn’t anybody call her on trying to intimidate people? It sounds so much like blackmail.”

Brandon chewed the last of his bear claw. “Great idea, Goldy. Now we know those meetings she had with us in her office were taped. When I called headquarters the week after HR left, they said to me, ‘You get proof she’s threatening you and we’ll fire her.’ Not that I would trust them. But I checked the labels on the tapes Luella Downing found. None were from the Monday after the HR people left, when Suz went on her threatening rampage.”

“That’s it?” I said, astonished. “Monday – what would it have been, July 14? The tapes from that day are missing?”

“Why? You know where they are?”

“No,” I said with a sudden yawn I couldn’t suppress. “I don’t have a clue.”

When I crawled back into bed at four, Tom rolled over and said, “I’m beginning to think there’s someone else.”

I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. They were the kind of giggles you get when you’re very young, at camp or a slumber parry, and can’t contain, no matter how valiantly you try.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “You got another statement to make? Some wrongdoing you encountered out on your prowls?”

“I can’t…” I said between giggles, “help it … if I can’t… sleep.”

“Soothe me, then. Tell me where you went.” “To the pastry shop. Had a bear claw. Sorry, I didn’t bring you any.”

He put his arms around me and growled. “Promise me the next time you go on one of these excursions, you take me with you. I feel like a kid who always gets left behind.”

I snuggled into his arms. “Okay. Whither I go, thou goest. Or words to that effect.”

“So did you find out anything about Korman at the pastry shop?”

“Sort of. The missing day’s tapes are for July 14, when Suz Craig called in all the employees who’d complained about her to HQ and threatened to fire them. She must have met with other people that day, too, like Ralph Shelton. So … if you had tapes of yourself blackmailing people, where would you hide them?”

“I’d destroy them.”

“Oh, cop, you’re a lot of help.”

24

My yoga regimen that morning was made more difficult by the phone ringing insistently at six o’clock. I pulled myself out of a contorted asana with the hope that this was the sheriff’s department calling to tell us they’d captured the Jerk. No such luck: over the wire came the commanding voice of the much-dreaded dollmeister, Gail Rodine.

“The board doesn’t want you to use the grill tonight for our final dinner,” she announced without a hint of apology for calling so early. “I mean, after what happened to ReeAnn Collins, we just… feel it’s too dangerous.”

Thinking of the mountains of hamburgers I had made and frozen, and the bags of chicken breasts I had been planning to marinate, my heart plummeted. I could never get them all grilled at home and reheated at the LakeCenter, without ruining them. “What would you like, then?” I asked carefully. “It’ll be impossible to order in more food supplies before tonight.”

“Well… what do you already have on hand?

Anything that you could grill, say, at home and then heat up?”

“Some I could do,” I said confidently. “The last thing I want is for a client to be worried about preparation. But what I have on hand…” I mentally weighed the chicken. “If I grill the chicken I have, it will only feed half your folks. I’ll have to make…” I mentally scanned my refrigerator. “I’ll prepare a Camembert pie to fill things out. It’ll contain shrimp and vegetables, too.” From under the rumpled covers Tom’s sleep-worn face appeared. I held my hand over the receiver and mouthed, “Client needs whole new dish for tonight.”

“Macguire said he wanted to help you,” Tom replied as he rolled back under the sheet. “Give him some chopping to do. He’s worried about how depressed you are about Arch. He really wants to go back to being your assistant.”

“Goldy?” Gail Rodine. “Goldy, are you listening to me? How much extra is this going to cost?”

“I do want you, the board, and the guests to be comfortable, Gail – “

“Don’t worry,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’ve already called a Denver caterer, and he said no one could meet our needs for a fancy dinner by five o’clock tonight without an exorbitant surcharge.”

“Gail, please – “

“That’s ridiculous!” she shrieked into my ear. “I told them, ‘You don’t want us to get blown up by a propane grill, do you?’ “

“The Camembert pie retails for approximately forty dollars. You’re already getting grilled Chicken a l’Orange and rice. I can add a tossed salad of field greens and perhaps a molded fruit salad, if I have time. Plus vanilla frozen yogurt with those chocolate cookies you had in your box lunches. There’s only a five percent surcharge for changing the menu at this late date.” I

“Fine, fine, put it on our bill.” She rang off. “I’m afraid to ask what that was about.” Tom’s voice rumbled as he headed for the bathroom.

“Woman doesn’t want to stage her last barbecue tonight,” I said as I groaned before starting a final stretch. “Doesn’t want to end up like Ree-Ann.”

“Figures. Hey, let me see that.” He walked over to me, a manly vision in T-shirt and cotton undershorts. He touched my arm. “My God, Goldy! Look at that bruise! I swear I’m going to kill Korman myself, one of these days.”

I twisted and frowned at the black-and-blue mark that had formed on my lower arm from being banged around by John Richard. I hadn’t noticed it until now. “Uh, well. Say, do you want to go back to bed?”

He smiled at me but touched the bruise gently. “Does it hurt?”

I gave a doctor-style shrug. “I’ll live, if we have a roll in the hay first.”

He obliged, and we had a wonderful, warm, intimate time. Sometimes the best thing you can do in the morning is go right back to bed.

After a while Tom said, “I’m going to help you with this breakfast, and go in late. By the way, I bought you another spiral-cut honey-cured ham. It’s in the walk-in.”

I grinned and kissed him. “You’re marvelous beyond words. And thank you – I’d love the company this morning.”

I fixed myself an espresso while Tom took his shower. Because the hospital had rebuffed me, and because it was too early to call Marla, I made a quick call to the sheriff’s department: ReeAnn Collins was out of danger and recovering from third-and second-degree burns. John Richard Korman, unfortunately, was still at large. And no, the duty officer informed me, Korman had not shown up at the Druckmans’ house.

I sipped the espresso and wondered how Arch was doing. He’d only been gone one night, but it felt like an eternity because it was so open-ended. I’m going to live with the Druckmans for a while. At least until Dad’s hearing. I got out leeks, tomatoes, and cream cheese, then retrieved two large bags of shrimp from the freezer. When Tom appeared in the kitchen, with his hair freshly washed and a tiny glob of shaving cream stuck under his ear, I was doubly glad he had decided to stay. Nothing like loneliness and a violent ex-husband on the lam to make one brood.

“Give me a job, Captain Cook,” Tom demanded merrily after he’d chugged down the espresso I’d given him and heard the news about ReeAnn and the Jerk. “The less savory the job, sir, the better.”

That was easy: I despise poaching and shelling shrimp. Now I not only needed the shellfish for the doll-club board breakfast, I needed them for the dinner, too. “If you could cook and shell all that shrimp, I’d be eternally grateful.”

He eyed the bulging bags and chuckled. “Aye-aye, sir.”

I started on a brioche-style dough that would form a delectable top crust for the dish I’d decided to call Collectors’ Camembert Pie. While we were both working, Macguire made a sudden appearance in the kitchen. I glanced at the clock: not even seven. “This is unexpected,” I remarked. “What’s up?”

“Give me something to do,” he said bravely, his voice still thick with sleep. “I want to help.”

I cut a glance at Tom, who resolutely bent over the shrimp. These two had conspired to cheer me up, no question about it. Fine. To Macguire, I pointed out the plump tomatoes to be seeded and chopped, artichoke bottoms to be trimmed, asparagus to be steamed and sliced, Camembert to be thickly cut, and Parmesan to be grated.

“I’ll worry about putting it all together when I get home,” I said with a smile.

“Uh,” said Macguire, “that’s a lot of food for breakfast, isn’t it?”

“It’s for dinner, Macguire.”

“Uh.” He rubbed his eyes. “Well, can I go back to bed until about ten and start chopping then?”

I laughed. “Of course.” When he had hauled himself back upstairs, I beat the eggs for the main course. “Tom,” I said thoughtfully as I chopped tomatoes and leeks, “what’s the time frame for John Richard’s trial?”

“Preliminary hearing should be in about another three weeks. The county’s prosecuting attorney needs to see if there’s enough evidence to go to trial. As soon as the drug screen’s done and the skin and hair under Suz Craig’s fingernails are analyzed, they’ll know more than they do now. But as you know, there’s already a lot of evidence against him.”

“What about the vandals?”

“No sign of them. They could be anybody. They could have been hired by somebody sympathetic to Suz Craig.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so.” I melted butter, put in the chopped leeks, and stirred the gold-and-green mixture. The aroma was deliciously sharp and fresh. “I guess it’s conceivable that someone rented a white Jeep. Someone who knew what kind of car John Richard drove. The person would have to live close by.”

Tom expertly drained the shrimp and ran cold water over them. “The only people connected to the case who live very close by are Patricia McCracken and Ralph Shelton. Patricia says she was asleep and her husband backs her up. Ralph Shelton says that after he and his wife got home from the country club, they went to bed. The wife says he was next to her in bed the whole night. But she admits she’s a sound sleeper.”

“Lucky her.” I stirred the bright red tomatoes into the bubbling mass of butter and leeks, then gently stirred in the eggs. “I wish I knew why I can’t find out what’s going on inside ACHMO.”

His voice quivered with anger. “I wish I knew why I can’t seem to protect you from that violent ex-husband of yours.”

“Not to make any excuses for him, but the man can’t deal with frustration. Especially when he’s had a few drinks. Maybe he knocked on the front door the way he said he did. But just because I didn’t answer right away is no reason to lose his temper.”

Doll Show Shrimp and Eggs

1 teaspoon Old Bay Seasoning

8 large frozen easy-peel shrimp

3 tablespoons butter

ź cup chopped leek, white part only

1/3 cup chopped fresh tomato, seeds and pulp removed

6 eggs, slightly beaten

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

3 ounces cream cheese, cut into ź inch cubes

Preheat oven to 400°. Bring a pint of water to boil and add the Old Bay Seasoning and the shrimp. Cook the shrimp until they are just pink. Do not overcook the shrimp. Drain and peel the shrimp, then cut each one in half. Melt the butter in an ovenproof skillet, then add the leek and tomato. Saute gently for about 5 minutes, until the leek is softened.

Pour the eggs into the leek-tomato-mixture, season with salt and freshly ground pepper, and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally to prevent browning, until eggs have almost congealed but still have some liquid left. Stir in the shrimp and the cream cheese. Bake in the oven for about 10 minutes, or until cream cheese is melted and eggs are completely congealed.

Serves 2 to 3

Collectors’ Camembert Pie

Crust:

1/3 cup milk

2 tablespoons butter

2 teaspoons sugar

2 ˝ teaspoons (1 package) dry yeast

ž teaspoon salt

1 egg, slightly beaten

1 ˝ teaspoons oil

1 ź cups flour (or more)

Heat the milk, butter, and sugar until the butter is melted. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool slightly (to 105 to 115 ). Stir the yeast into the milk mixture and let it stand for 10 minutes. Stir in the salt, egg, and oil. Add the flour ź cup at a time, stirring well, until each addition is thoroughly incorporated and dough holds together well. Turn out onto a lightly floured board and knead for 10 minutes, adding small amounts of flour if necessary, until dough is smooth and satiny. (Or use a dough hook and knead in a mixer for the same amount of time.) Place the dough in an oiled bowl and turn it once to oil the top. Cover the bowl and set aside to rise at room temperature until tripled in bulk (about 2 hours). Punch the dough down, roll it into a rectangle approximately 9 by 13 inches, and place it in a jumbo-size zippered plastic bag. Refrigerate for up to 6 hours. When you begin to prepare the pie, remove the bag from the refrigerator to allow the dough to come to room temperature.

Filling:

1 tablespoon Old Bay Seasoning

36 large (1 ˝ pounds) easy-peel shrimp

8 ounces fresh asparagus, trimmed

1 pound fresh tomatoes, cored and seeded

1 pound canned artichoke bottoms (5 or 6 per can)

2 12-ounce wheels (1 ˝ pounds) Camembert

1 cup mayonnaise

2/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan

2 teaspoons pressed garlic (4 to 6 pressed cloves)

ž teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled

ž teaspoon dried rosemary, crumbled

ž teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled

In a wide skillet, bring a quart of water to boil and add the Old Bay Seasoning. Add the shrimp and cook until just pink. Do not overcook the shrimp. Drain the shrimp and discard the cooking water. Peel the shrimp and set it aside until you are ready to assemble the pie.

Slice the asparagus spears into thirds. Slice the cored and seeded tomatoes into eighths. Drain the artichoke bottoms, trim them of any rough edges, and slice each artichoke bottom into sixths. Scrape most of the rind off the Camembert and slice each wheel into sixteenths. (You will have thirty-two pie-shaped pieces of cheese.) In a small bowl, thoroughly combine the mayonnaise, Parmesan, garlic, and herbs.

Preheat the oven to 350°. Butter a 9-by 13-inch glass pan. Assemble the pie by placing half of the shrimp in the bottom of the pan (three rows of 6 shrimp each), then evenly layer half of the asparagus, half of the tomatoes, half of the artichoke bottoms, and half of the Camembert over the shrimp. Using a small spoon, dab half of the mayonnaise mixture over the Camembert layer. Repeat the layers in the same order, ending with the last layer of shrimp. Carefully place the brioche dough over the top and cut several vents to allow steam to escape.

Bake for 45 minutes, or until dough is golden brown and filling is hot and bubbly. Allow to cool slightly before serving, about 5 or 10 mintues.

Serves 6 to 8

Tom shook his head, then measured out the shelled shrimp I needed for the breakfast dish: Doll Show Shrimp and Eggs. I stirred in the shrimp, then removed the pan from the heat. At the LakeCenter this morning I would add the cream cheese chunks to the eggs, vegetables, and shrimp, then bake the dish for a short time, just until the cheese melted and the ingredients had all melded into an irresistible mélange.

“Why don’t you just bake it now?” Tom, ever the efficient cook, wanted to know.

“You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right.”

“Ah. Well. If I leave now I’ll be exactly an hour late. Think you can handle the rest of the morning?”

“With you for a helpmate, my dear sir, I can handle anything.”

He sighed skeptically. “Just be careful, Miss G., please?”

“Yessir. Now, please, go serve and protect and don’t worry about me, okay? Stop crime. Make America safe for the consumption of apple pie. My apple pie.”

After he left, I brushed my fingers thoughtfully over the ugly bruise on my arm. Something I had seen and something I had said were working their way into my consciousness. It takes at least three hours for an injured area to turn black and blue, I knew that from Med Wives 101. As well, alas, from personal experience.

But black-and-blue marks didn’t form on a corpse, as Tom had pointed out. Suz had had a nasty blowout with John Richard, and she’d had the exact pattern of bruises he usually inflicted. He’d even admitted they’d had a fight. Yet he was equally adamant that he’d left her alive after their argument and gone home. And really, the way he’d acted at my window yesterday was more typical of him: He got frustrated and he blew up. Then he either beat you until you submitted, or until something else stopped him, like the hanging plant Marla had whacked him with once, or the ill-fated ham I’d cracked over his head yesterday.

And Suz hadn’t accidentally fallen into the ditch. She’d been beaten to death with a metal scratching post and then her body had been dumped into the ditch. It didn’t make sense.

Even if someone else had killed her and wanted to put the blame on John Richard, how could he or she even know Suz and the Jerk would be together that night? How could he or she know he’d lose his temper?

And even if the Jerk had beaten Suz up, a killer wanting to pin the murder on John Richard would have had to wait until the bruises formed so that it looked as if John Richard had not only beaten her but finished her off. Like the timing on the egg dish I was preparing, the killer’s timing would have to be perfect.

And then I remembered what I’d said to Tom: You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right. If John Richard had not murdered Suz Craig, then whoever had had taken great pains to plan it.

I glanced at my watch: seven-forty-five. I quickly packed up the ham, the eggs, and the breads for the breakfast, which was scheduled to start at nine. This last day of the doll show would begin at eleven. The doors would close at four so that the ballroom could be cleaned. Then the show would reopen at five and close at seven. The final dinner for the board and their guests was set for eight o’clock, to take full advantage of the magical evening light on the lake.

I slipped my cellular phone into my pocket, but not before I’d taken note of three numbers: Patricia McCracken, Frances Markasian, and Lutheran Hospital, in case ReeAnn Collins was well enough to talk. Regardless of the fact that I had catering to do today, I had a crime to try to solve. My heart ached. I wanted Arch home. I wanted to know, once and for all, what had happened in Saturday’s early-morning hours. And I was going to find out. For Arch, and for me.

Carefully, I scanned our garage and my van’s interior. No Jerk. Where could he be? Twice during the short drive to the LakeCenter I had the discomfiting feeling that someone was following me. But my rearview mirror yielded nothing unusual, and even when I pulled onto the shoulder of the lake’s frontage road, no one else stopped. I put it down to nerves.

At the LakeCenter the portly, disheveled security guard again looked and smelled like the “before” picture in an advertisement for Alcoholics Anonymous. His disheveled gray hair was a mass of greasy curls; his red-veined eyes resembled a back-roads map of Utah. In the trash can next to him three empty whiskey pint bottles looked incriminating. As before, I felt sorry for him. And like any kind-hearted caterer, I asked if he wanted some coffee and toast once I got the board’s breakfast underway.

“Wha … ? he slurrec. “Break … fast? Oh, yeah. Sure, coffee. Put some brandy in, you got any. ‘Kay?”

So much for good deeds. I sighed and asked if there was any way he could open the side door for me.

“Yeah, sure. Pull your van ‘round the far wall. It’s ‘kay. I can’t leave the front for more than a minute to help ya, though. Gotta protect the damn toys. I’ll open the door from inside, it’s ‘kay, I can trust ya. Right?” He burped and disappeared to open the side door.

While the oven was preheating for the eggs and ham, I sallied back and forth to put down an extension cord for the large coffee urn and set out the silverware and plates. The morning was quite cool, ld the warming promise of the large coffeepot gurgling on one of the picnic tables seemed especially welcome. The pussy willows beside the lake path shifted and whispered in the breeze. A redwing blackbird warned its compatriots of my presence by squawking and raising one wing. I smiled, sliced and ranged the bread, then poured the juice. When I’d given the guard a large mug of coffee and put the eggs and ham in the oven, I dialed Lutheran Hospital I and asked to be put through to ReeAnn Collins. If she was not well enough to talk, I would not press her.

A man, sounding too old and serious to be ReeAnn’s unreliable boyfriend, gruffly answered the lone. I identified myself and asked to speak to Ms. CoIlins. The phone was handed across.

“Helloo-oo!” a woman cooed merrily. “R-ReeAnn!” I stuttered. “It’s Goldy Schulz.

You sound so-good! I was sorry to hear about the accident.”

“Yes,” she said with unusual pleasantness, as if she were enjoying the attention. “Right now I’ve got bandages on my body from the burns. I can’t do much moving yet.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“Well, you know, I got thrown into the creek by the explosion. The doctor told me it was a good thing, getting cold water on the burns right away. Anyway, I’m in excellent physical shape. Even though I was numb, I managed to paddle over to the creekbank. Everybody was pretty impressed. Plus now I’m on painkillers,” she added with a giggle. “Beats working, that’s for sure. Gotta roomful of flowers from my boyfriend. Plus, I’ve met a couple of cute interns, if the b.f. doesn’t work out.”

“ReeAnn,” I whispered with relief.

“Plus,” she continued gaily, “there’s a cop at the door and one here to answer the phone, ‘cuz the sheriff’s department figured out there was explosive in the grill.”

“What.?”

“Oh, I forget what kind it was. The boyfriend feels guilty.” She sighed. “Somebody supposedly from his bike shop called and said ‘Forget the sandwiches.’ Then whoever it was set up our lunch for twelve-thirty. I was going to get there at noon, dump charcoal on the grill, get it started. I got to the park, dumped on the charcoal, and the grill went ka-boom. Total bummer. So,” she said in a hungry-for-news voice, “how’s John Richard? Have you gotten any money? Think he’s going to be able to give me my last paycheck?”

I swallowed. “You haven’t heard from him?”

“Are you kidding?” she scoffed. “The only people I’ve heard from are my boyfriend, my mother, and the damn ACHMO people. They still seem to think I’ve hidden some tapes of theirs. I told them what I’ve always told them: Go to hell. Now the sheriff’s department screens my calls. So have you gotten your money or not?”

“No, I haven’t gotten it.” I thought again about my speculation concerning timing. What had John Richard and Suz been arguing about Friday night at the club? “Ah, ReeAnn, if it’s not too much trouble, do you remember if there was something that happened on Friday, some negative thing that could have set off a fight between John Richard and Suz Craig?”

How could I forget? It was the last day I worked with him. That Friday, a FedEx came. When I opened it, I thought, Uh-oh, the doc’s going to be ticked off now! First the condo in Keystone, now he’s gonna lose the one in Hawaii!”

“And the FedEx was…” .. A letter from Suz Craig’s office at ACHMO. Saying no bonus this year. He went ballistic.”

No kidding. But this was interesting, since I was thinking about timing. The no-bonus notice hadn’t come by postal service – too unpredictable as to arrival time. Nor had the denial of bonus come as a phone call-too easily argued with. Whoever had sent the letter had sent it FedEx, so he or she could be absolutely certain the message would arrive on a certain day, and virtually guarantee a conflict.

“What did the letter say?”

She sighed impatiently. “Something about how we hadn’t done the billing properly or consistently or within their guidelines or something. And he wasn’t going to get his bonus. That’s it. At the bottom, it said, ‘signed for and on behalf of Suz Craig.’ I told him it was because she was afraid to sign it!”

“Who signed it for her?”

“Didn’t say. I couldn’t tell, anyway, because John Richard snatched that letter away and started to have one of his fits.”

I gritted my teeth. I checked the timer for the eggs: one minute to go. The doll collectors had gathered outside and were drinking their juice and pulling large cups of coffee for themselves from the silver urn. “ReeAnn, look, I just have one more question for you, and it has to do with Suz Craig.” She groaned. “I’m just trying to figure out about that night, Friday. Was there any reason they were going out? Did they have a standing date for Friday night?”

“Oh, now that I do remember, because Ms. Crank was always wanting them to celebrate their little anniversaries. First month of going out, they exchange balloons; second month, they buy each other workout clothes; on and on until they’ve been going together six whole months, then she gets a fur coat and he gets an ID bracelet, for God’s sake. Pull-leeze.”

“And Friday night was…”

“August first? The Month Seven anniversary, where have you been? I think she wanted tickets to Bermuda, but instead she got herself killed. What can I say? She should have given him the bonus. Oh, man, listen to me. I need another painkiller.” Chortling, ReeAnn hung up.

The timer beeped. I took out the casserole and had a taste with a small plastic spoon. The silken texture of the eggs, combined with the tomatoes, leeks, hot, barely melted chunks of cream cheese, and seasoned poached shrimp, was divine. I carried the pan out and placed it next to the warm ham and baskets of bread. The doll board members included Tina Corey dressed as Sea Queen Babsie and Gail Rodine in a formidable wide-brimmed hat covered with netting. They all piled up their plates with food and talked excitedly about what a smash their opening day had been. I was surprised to see Frances Markasian, her wild black hair and ratty trench coat at odds with the perfect coiffures, stylish clothes, and occasional doll costumes of the board members, at the end of one of the picnic tables. She whispered to me that she was covering the show for the paper.

“I’m telling you, Goldy,” Frances said as she shoveled up a heaping forkful of eggs, “I’m going to have to do a bikers’ convention next, to recover from this.”

“I need to talk to you,” I whispered back. “I’m just about done serving here, and I was going to call you today, anyway. I have some information and some… lingering questions about Suz Craig’s murder.”

She brightened. “You promised you’d share stuff with me and you’re actually going to do it? Wonders never cease. These eggs are yummy.”

“Thanks. I’ll give you the recipe. Want to talk?” I asked conspiratorially.

She dropped her fork, eased off the picnic bench, and shouldered her huge purse. “I need to take notes while we talk. Let me meet you in the kitchen, before I die of ecstasy.”

25

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, Goldy,” Frances announced when she’d heaved herself up on one of the counters, armed with her notebook, a newly popped Jolt cola, and a cigarette strictly for-bidden by the signs posted everywhere in the LakeCenter. She blew the smoke in a rolling stream out the kitchen’s open window. “With all that John Richard’s up to, it’s almost as if you’re being punished, too. I heard he beat you up and then skipped. Any idea where he is?”

“No. And if those women catch you smoking around their precious dolls, you’ll be punished so badly you’ll never be able to say the words ‘Bail-Jumping Babsie’ again.”

She shrugged. “Aw, you’re breaking my heart.” The cigarette dangled from her thin lips. “Spill it. Tell me everything you’ve got. I’ve got a police band radio, remember. How badly did John Richard hurt you yesterday?”

“I’m okay,” I said briefly. “You remember who Ralph Shelton is?”

“Course I remember. I may have been cover Monday morning, July 14. The missing day in Suz’s secret tapes. On that Monday morning, what had Ralph Shelton talked to Suz about? Had Ralph received some of Suz’s wrath that day, too? I had no idea. Could the Jerk have Suz’s tapes from July 14? Had whoever tried to blow up ReeAnn thought the Jerk had given ReeAnn those tapes? Didn’t know that either, and I certainly wasn’t going to start speculating with Frances. We were friends, but there are some things you just don’t share with a journalist.

“I still think Korman did it.” Frances stopped scribbling but held her pen poised. “I’m just looking at ACHMO for my other story. But you’re really into this.”

I slumped against the counter. “It’s awful.”

Frances energetically stubbed out her cigarette in the sink, then slapped her notebook closed. “Two things, Goldy. You seem very stressed. It’s your involvement in this case.”

“Oh, gee, Frances, how would you like it if your violent ex-husband was accused of murder? How would it feel if he came over and tried to beat you up before escaping to God-knows-where? Relaxing? Besides, I’m asking questions to soothe Arch, I told you.”

Frances swept a dark mass of frizzy hair off her forehead. “Know what, Goldy? You need a hobby.”

I said glumly, “Cooking used to be my hobby.”

“Naw, you need something else. It is like you’re being punished, you’re so obsessed with this case. You need to get some distance.”

I grabbed a box for the dirty breakfast dishes. “What would you suggest, Frances, doll collecting?”

She burst out laughing and jumped off the counter. “Now you’re punishing me.”

It took a solid hour to clean up after the breakfast. By the time I finished, I felt as drained as the empty silver coffee urn. But the breakfast had been a success. When the doors opened for the hordes waiting to get into the doll show, I was glad I could slip out the side exit and avoid the stampede. I hustled to my van. A phone call to the McCrackens wouldn’t do. I stepped on the gas and headed toward the country club. I wanted to see Patricia in person.

She was pushing Tyler the Terrible on their swing set constructed on the sloping backyard beyond the driveway, scene of the infamous roller hockey game. For a moment I stood watching them, unobserved. It had been a long time since I’d seen Patricia look happy. Her face was relaxed, her arm movements enthusiastic and graceful. She and Tyler were wearing matching navy sweatsuits. With each tug on the ropes she cooed to her son, a blond little fellow whose round face and squeals of laughter showed he was loving every minute. I almost hated interrupting them. On the other hand, unlike Patricia, my son was estranged from me, and I had information to gather before Arch and I could be reconciled.

“Howdy!” I called, and stepped carefully down the embankment. “I was in the neighborhood! Thought I’d stop by!”

Patricia smiled unenthusiastically and allowed the swing rope to go slack, which caused Tyler no end of grief.

“Keep swinging,” I told her, once I was beside her. “Don’t disappoint him.”

Obediently, she started pushing again, but less energetically, so that Tyler again squawked.

“Do you want me to do it?” I suggested. “I felt bad about not being able to talk to you yesterday when you called. So I just thought I’d come by. Sort of for an update.”

She brightened and moved aside so that I could push Tyler, who gave me only one command: “Really hard, okay? Really hard.”

“Okey-doke,” I agreed, and gave him a good push as Patricia flopped onto the grass, watching us. Tyler squealed with delight. “Hey, buddy!” I called to him as he lofted up over the hill. “I’m a swing pusher from way back! I’m the queen of the swing pushers!” I gave him another vigorous shove and he yelped happily.

“Be careful,” Patricia cautioned. “One of the reasons I’m here is that I want you to be careful,” I said in a normal voice so as not to frighten Tyler. “John Richard is out on bail. And now he’s disappeared.”

She lifted her pale eyebrows. “I took tae kwon do before I got pregnant and after I got out of the hospital. Have a red belt, black stripe, now. I can take care of myself. What’s the other reason you’re here?”

“Well, I was just thinking about John Richard’s finances.”

She wrinkled her rabbitlike nose. “He had to auction the condo just… what? In the last ten days.”

“But why auction it at all? See, he hadn’t gotten news about his bonus yet – “

Patricia perked up. “Bonus? Did he not get a bonus from ACHMO?”

“Apparently not.”

Patricia’s grin was wide. “I may be able to use that in my suit.”

“Anyway, I’m just wondering…” I gasped from the exertion, but Tyler crowed with delight. “You said you’d give me the details at the hockey party, but everything got so crazy…”

She smiled wickedly. “Oh, I do know why he had to auction the condo, Goldy. My husband said it was almost as if I’d planned it, so I could make Korman miserable.”

I inadvertently stopped pushing and the swing knocked me in the abdomen. I recovered, but Tyler howled. I pushed again, a tad more moderately. “Why did he have to auction off his condo?”

She squinted at me. Keeping track of Tyler’s trajectory so I wouldn’t get whacked again, I couldn’t return her look. “Because of his legal bills. Have you ever been sued?” When I shook my head, she said, “You’re looking at ten thousand just to get started. At least fifty thou to keep your lawyer going. Sure, he had malpractice insurance, but it didn’t cover everything, not by a long shot. He just didn’t have the cash he needed.” She plucked a piece of grass from her pants. “I was so happy when they auctioned off that condo, you can’t imagine.” She chuckled, then stood and brushed the rest of the grass from her pants. She walked over to spell me with the swing pushing. “Goldy, listen. I may wish I were God,” she said very deliberately. “Unfortunately, I’m not. But let me tell you. John Richard Korman hasn’t begun to suffer for what he did to me. And he won’t be able to escape, no matter how hard he tries.”

As if in agreement, Tyler emitted an earsplitting yowl. I fled.

I called Macguire from the cellular once I’d roared out of Patricia’s driveway. To my astonishment, he answered on the first ring.

“Goldilocks’ Catering!” He brightly launched into my official greeting. “Where Everything Is Just Right! Whaddayawant?”

“Macguire! Please don’t say ‘whaddayawant?’ to potential clients. It sounds unprofessional.”

“Oh, Goldy! Sorry! No problem. Listen, I’m chopping all these vegetables. They look good, too! Think you should slip a little chlorophyll into the filling?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Listen, did Arch call?”

“No, but that therapist’s office called you back and said everyone’s on vacation. You want a therapist for Arch, you’re going to have to use a referral to someone in Denver.”

Great, I thought. First, of course, I’d have to convince Arch to come home.

“Also,” Macguire went on, “Mrs. Druckman called. She’s taking Todd and Arch down to the Natural History Museum. Oh, and Marla called, too. She was on her way to Denver to see ReeAnn, wanted you to come have lunch with her, just so you could relax! But it’s too late now, she’s gone.”

“That’s okay, I’ll come home.”

“No, don’t! Let me finish what I’ve got going here. If you come home, you’ll just mope around about Arch. You should go out for lunch! How about Aspen Meadow Barbecue? My buddies and I think it’s great. Plus, you’ve got that dinner tonight, you might as well get some food now! Have a bowl of chili and a beer! Relax and leave the chopping to me!”

“Macguire – “

“Oh, oh, scrrk, scrrk” – he started making fake squishing noises-“you’re breaking up, you know, it’s those scrrk scrrk cellular phones scrrk!” And he disconnected.

“Macguire,” I said to the dead phone, “I’ve seen you do this trick before.” But I smiled anyway and dutifully headed the van in the direction of Aspen Meadow Barbecue, famed creekside hangout of construction workers, truck drivers, wannabe cowboys, and assorted tough guys, all of whom had the single-minded intention of getting completely smashed at lunch. An outdoor dining area separated the hard-drinking crowd inside from tourists and the occasional brave group of ladies coming for a luncheon get-together on the water. The last time Marla and I had eaten there, she’d told me that the de rigueur item for the crowd inside was extra hot chili consumed with shots of tequila.

But Marla wasn’t with me today, I remembered. I sighed. Did I really want to have lunch out alone? Macguire was doing the prep for the dinner tonight, and I could use a break. Across the street from Aspen Meadow Barbecue was a banner draped across the wooden sign of Aspen Meadow Nursery. It advertised a perennial-and-bush sale. I thought of Frances’s admonition: You need a hobby. Well, maybe I’d go scope out the shrubs before braving the rough lunch crowd at Aspen Meadow Barbecue.

I wandered through sparsely stocked aisles and finally decided on some Fairy roses. The bushes featured lovely pink blossoms and were guaranteed’ hardy at our altitude, a key asset. As I loaded them into the van, I pictured Tom getting a huge kick out of my sudden interest in things horticultural.

Wait a minute. I stopped dead and looked again at the carved sign: ASPEN MEADOW NURSERY. In the list of questions I’d entered into my computer about Suz Craig’s murder, had I even thought to look into these people, also fired by Suz Craig? No. Well. No time like the present.

I hustled back inside and told the cashier that on second thought I’d like to have my yard landscaped. And I wanted to have the same person who’d done Suz Craig’s in the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Suz had raved to me about the great work he’d done.

The cashier’s face fell. “Uh, you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, Duke’s out in the yard. Big blond fellow. Better go catch him, he does an early shift, then goes out with the guys for lunch on Wednesdays, then he goes home and sleeps. I have to tell you, Duke didn’t like that Craig woman. You might want to find somebody else, if she was your friend. He had a big grudge against her. Still does, even if she’s dead.”

Yes, yes, I thought, take a number and get in line. The cashier pointed me in the direction of the nursery’s yard, which was on the same side of the street as Aspen Meadow Barbecue. The man at the yard gate pointed to a Paul Bunyanesque, platinum-haired giant who wore ear protection and drove a Cat loaded with mulch. The gate guard waited until the Cat had turned in our direction, then waved to the giant, whom I assumed was Duke. Duke dumped the mulch in the waiting bed of a truck, then chugged over to us. He flipped a switch and the engine died. He hopped out of the Cat and loomed over us-he was at least six foot six-and asked the gate guard what he wanted, for crying out loud. The guard jerked his thumb in my direction.

Duke turned his attention down to me. His dark blue eyes were not friendly. The bus-yellow ear-protection device dangled from one of his meaty hands, and I had the feeling that if he didn’t like what I had to say, he’d pop it right back on. I looked way, way up at him.

“Ah, I understand that,” I began sincerely, “you did some landscaping for Suz Craig. I thought it looked great.”

“Yah, what about it? You a friend of hers?”

“Well, sort of – “

“Okay, see ya later,” he said abruptly, and snapped the ear protection back on.

“Wait!” I yelled. Duke scowled, opened his eyes wide, and tugged off the metal ear muffs.

“I gotta go, lady. I’m going out to lunch in a few minutes and I need to finish this load. You want a landscaper, ask the people at the nursery to give you a referral someplace else. I don’t want to work for nobody who liked that woman. Got it? See ya later, okay?”

“Well, hold on,” I said, desperate now. “Just talk to me. I don’t really want landscaping. I catered for Suz Craig and I’m having some problems – “

Duke smirked knowingly. “Ah, she stiffed you, too, huh?”

“What?” Then I understood. Suz Craig had refused to pay him for his work. I assumed a sad expression. “We had terrible problems,” I confided.

Duke looked at the sky and shook his blond head. “Honestly, people like that – “

“You heard she was killed.”

“Yah. No wonder.”

“So you thought she was hard to deal with, too. I’m just wondering if your story is similar to mine.”

“I’ll tell ya, I’d have to be half plastered to tell my story about that woman. But then you wouldn’t be able to shut me up.”

Inspiration struck. I asked, “How quickly can you finish your load?” He grunted something unintelligible. Undaunted, I went on. “How does tequila and chili sound? My treat.”

Duke grunted again, something that I decided to take as a yes.

I said, “Let’s do lunch.”

26

Inside Aspen Meadow Barbecue, there was only one free table. I quickly nabbed it for Duke and me while scoping out the restaurant’s interior. All I needed now was someone I knew informing my new drinking buddy, Duke, that my husband was a cop. That could put a chilling effect on our lunchtime chat. But of the two dozen men ranging from scruffy to burly at the bar and tables, no one looked familiar.

Once Duke had seated himself and called greetings to a few of his pals, I slipped over to the bartender. “Two tequila doubles for my friend, but just give me water, because I’m driving us home. When I signal, bring us the bottles. Put water in mine. I can’t drink, but I don’t want him to feel as if he’s drinking alone.”

The bartender, who sported a stiff handlebar mustache, squinted at me appraisingly. “You trying to keep him away from the wheel, or you trying to get him into bed?”

I pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket. “Just please do what I ask.”

He palmed the bill in a way that suggested he’d been bribed before. “I’ll give you something besides water, to look more realistic. Tell you the truth, I’m glad somebody’s driving Duke home. Every Wednesday I gotta call somebody from the nursery to take him.”

Soon Duke and I were crying “Skol” and clinking our first glasses. I took a tentative sip of what turned out to be flat Mountain Dew.

“Whatcha drinking?” Duke wanted to know, his tone already mellowing from defensive to chummy.

“Different kind of tequila. Lime-flavored.” We chugged our second shots companionably and I sneaked a peek at my watch. Just past noon. I needed to be home to put together the doll club’s dinner no later than three. Subtracting time to get Duke back to his place, that gave us about two hours. I signaled to the bartender to bring us the bottles. The man was so inventive, I had no doubt he could provide a suitable container for my Mountain Dew.

Duke smacked his lips. “Ah. Well. So. What happened to you with that woman? You trying to get money out of the will? That’s what I’m doing. Lawyer says it’ll take at least a year ‘cuz a the criminal investigation. My plants’ll croak by then.” He shook his head unhappily.

“No! Actually, see, I have a different kind of problem. My ex-husband’s the one who’s been accused of killing her – “

Duke grinned broadly. “Oh, boy: Mind if I smoke? It’s not tobacco, it’s a clove cigarette. Heard of ‘em?”

“No, but go ahead.” In a minute the spicy smoke rose in a cloud. I gagged but plunged onward. “I catered for Suz Craig, even though she was my ex-husband’s young, blond girlfriend. No grudges, you understand. But now her death has made a real mess for my family. You know, everybody blaming everybody. So my problem is that I keep looking back at what happened and thinking, How could I have prevented this?”

The bartender arrived and winked at me. He set a tequila bottle in front of Duke and a black ceramic decanter in the shape of an Aztec goddess in front of me. Cute. Then the waitress arrived and Duke informed her that we wanted two bowls of their hottest chili. I thought longingly of a crisp, cold arugula salad and how well it would go with iced coffee.

“What could you have done to prevent it?” Duke now repeated incredulously, shaking his big head. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. Some people are just that way. Bossy, impossible to please. Nothing you do is right for them. I always want to ask new clients, Are you an asshole? ‘Cuz if you are, I’d like to know up front. Save us both a lot of time. But, a’course, the nursery owner won’t let me.” He shook his head again.

“How was Suz Craig bossy to you? She seemed to like the landscape work you were doing when she showed it to me.”

Duke raised his bushy blond eyebrows, then tilted the tequila bottle toward his glass. “Oh, sure, she lied. You think everything’s fine, when all the time she’s getting ready to axe ya. But plain and simple? The woman was a bitch. Too damn smart. Never had to learn how to deal with regular people.

Tolerance, you know? She didn’t have none. Patience neither.” He quaffed another double shot. “For example. She trips on her in-grade steps made outa four-by-fours, the ones she ordered, and all of a sudden she wants new steps. Only she wants flagstone this time.”

“Flagstone,” I repeated. “Like the patios?”

“Yah. So we order more flagstones and put ‘em in the garage with the stuff we’ve hidden from the vandals. We build the steps. She doesn’t like the way they look. Fifteen thousand dollars and two weeks’ work time from my crew, and she says, Take out the flagstone, I want granite. Where’m I supposed to get granite steps? I say, Ya want an escalator? I know a guy.”

“Someone did fall down the steps and sprain his ankle,” I pointed out.

The tequila bottle was rapidly emptying. “Oh, I know, believe me. Big fat guy, shoulda watched where he was going. But it isn’t just them steps. She wants white tea roses alternating with pink musk mallow. This is a harsh, dry climate, I keep telling her. Ya want tea roses, ya need Florida. Even if ya put in rugosas, ya need irrigation. Fine, she says, just do it. So we put in a water tank and a drip system. But then she doesn’t want to see the water tank, right? So we have to wait to put in the rugosas and mallow until a picket fence goes up. And then she says, Ooh, ooh, I need stepping-stones around the picket fence. I say, How ‘bout marble? And she gets all huffy.”

Our chili arrived. One bite of the fiery concoction almost sent me running for the creek with my flame-spewing mouth wide open. Instead, I drank deeply of the Mountain Dew, right out of the decanter.

“Damn,” said Duke admiringly.

I ripped into several packages of saltines, dumped them over the chili, and ate cracker crumbs as I unabashedly wiped tears from my eyes. When I could finally clear my throat, I asked, “So what finally happened?”

He stopped shoveling chili into his mouth, chewed, and considered. “After all her complainin’ and moanin’ and us tryin’ to accommodate her? One day we show up as usual, though I’m thinkin’ I’m going to have to give my crew a year’s worth of free beer to keep ‘em on this job, and she comes out and says we’re fired. The fat guy’s fallen down the steps and she doesn’t want to get sued. I say, Fine, lady, we just need our tools, and she says, Make it snappy.”

He ate more chili. I filled his two double-shot glasses. He drank, then sighed. If the chili was scorching his throat, he gave no sign of it.

“Down by the picket fence there are thc rugosas and musk mallow that we just planted. But doggone if she hasn’t put in a friggin’ half-dozer marble stepping-stones, next to the plants, around the fence. Did she do it herself or hire somebody else? I say, Hey lady, who did this? I was only kid ding about the marble, I say, and she says for us to get out pronto and send her a bill.” His face turned morose. “So the nursery, you know, it takes then about a month to itemize the bill. She hasn’t even gotten our bill and she’s dead.” He ate more chili without a wince, then slugged down another double shot.

“What a mess,” I said comfortingly. Duke shrugged. His eyes had taken on a wet, bleary look. “I asked the cops… I said, Could we at least have our plants back? Because I figure we earned them.” He drained another shot glass. “They said… You know what they said to me?”

“Probate.”

“Yah, they said I’d have to wait until probate was over. Until the investigation was done. I said the plants would be dead by then. We never put a pump in the irrigation system.” He scraped the last spoonful of chili from the bowl, poured another double shot of tequila, and downed it. How many had he had? I’d lost count at ten. “Some night when I’m trashed? I’m going to go back over there. Dig up those plants we put in. Nobody’ll miss them. Pee on her patios, too, while I’m at it. Matter of fact, I should go right now.” He regarded me sadly. “Wanna come?”

I said no thanks and paid the bill. By the time I’d deposited Duke at his apartment-he lived in the same complex as Frances-I’d come up with some more questions. But Duke was no help. He stumbled to his door and declared he was ready to dive into bed. At least he didn’t ask if I wanted to join him for that, too.

It wasn’t too surprising, I thought as I turned the van in the direction of home, that Suz had been so demanding about the landscaping. In the case of the catered lunch I’d done for her, I realized in retrospect, she’d been eager to make nice and accommodate the ACHMO people from headquarters. She’d wanted to seem calm and flexible in front of her own department heads. But landscaping was something you had to live with and look at every day, sort of like your bathroom or bedroom. Still, why fire the nursery just because Chris had fallen down? Had Suz found somebody else to do the work for her? Somebody she liked better?

I pulled over on Main Street. It was only one-fifteen; Duke had gotten drunk a lot more quickly than I’d hoped. Cooking could come later. At that moment Macguire was right: I couldn’t quite face going through our door knowing my son wasn’t there. I called Tom on the cellular phone, fully expecting to get his machine.

“Schulz,” he answered gruffly.

“Hi. Remember Suz Craig’s tiff with the landscape people? Did she hire somebody else after that?”

“Well, hey, Miss G., how’s it going? Did you hear we found C-Four in that grill? We put two uniforms on guard at ReeAnn Collins’s room.” I said I knew, but that my urgent question at the moment was about Suz’s landscaping. Tom repeated, “The landscape people. Aspen Meadow Nursery?”

“Somebody new.”

“Not that we know of. I mean, nobody’s come forward saying they need to be paid except for Aspen Meadow Nursery.”

“No bills at all? No mail from, say, a construction company, an independent builder? Somebody in the marble business?”

He laughed. “What in the world are you up to?”

“Nothing. Just trying to fill the time between catered events.” After I hung up, I sat in my van and brooded. Suz Craig had squabbled endlessly and bitterly with Duke and his crew. Then she’d fired them, but only after Chris Corey had fallen. Why? Why hadn’t she fired them when the first problems erupted? And then Suz had put in some marble stepping-stones that Duke had suggested in jest? Why?

Oh, Lord. Why, indeed. Why would Ms. “I don’t do, I delegate” Craig fire her landscapers and put in some stones herself? Because she’d needed to. I made a careful V-turn on Main Street and headed back to Aspen Meadow Nursery.

When I got there, I knew exactly what I wanted. Did they have a cap, a workshirt, work gloves, and a gardening apron emblazoned with the words ASPEN MEADOW NURSERY and their plant logo? The cashier gave me another one of her quizzical looks but said the owner had always told her that if customers wanted something, even if it was the funny-looking rock bordering the parking lot, sell it to them.

“The shirt might not be clean,” she said apologetically.

“The dirtier the better. And I’d like a shovel and a spade, too.”

I put it all on my credit card and raced home. In the kitchen Macguire stood back triumphantly from the mountain range of neatly chopped tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and steamed asparagus. Platters were heaped with sliced Camembert and grated Parmesan. I thanked him. Again I was aware of how much better he looked: healthy skin color, shiny-clean red hair, straight posture, a frame that looked as if it had gained at least five pounds in the last two days, bright eyes, and, best of all, a huge, happy smile. No question about it, I was an herb-treatment convert.

“Great job,” I told him.

“Need any more help?” he asked energetically.

I surveyed all the work he had done. “Absolutely not. Thank you many times over.”

“Two more things,” he said secretively, then opened the walk-in. He retrieved a pan of grilled chicken. “I followed your recipe for marinating and grilling this chicken. Just a few minutes in the oven and it’ll be ready. I already tasted it. Juicy, succulent, tangy sauce, all that great stuff you always say. I’m a success! I can cook!”

“Macguire, I don’t know what to say – “

“Hold on, look at this.” He pulled out an enormous Bundt cake pan and held it out carefully for my inspection. Suspended sections of grapefruit glistened inside clear gelatin. “It’s from the Fanny Farmer Cookbook,” he said proudly. “Grapefruit molded salad. No mix. I made it myself.”

“You’re wonderful. And you really can cook.”

“Oh, and Arch called just when the Druckmans were getting ready to go to the museum. He was, like, whispering into the phone that the food’s not so good over at the Druckmans’ place. They should be back by now, so I’m taking him some of the burgers you made for the barbecue-that-isn’t-happening tonight. Is that okay?” When I nodded, he added, “Maybe Arch’ll come home sooner than you think.”

Grilled Chicken ŕ l’Orange

Marinade:

Zest of 1 medium orange

Juice of 1 medium orange (approximately 1/3 cup)

1 teaspoon dry mustard

Tiny pinch of cumin (optional)

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1/3 cup olive oil

4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves

Sauce:

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons flour

1 ˝ tablespoons sugar

ź teaspoon cinnamon

ź teaspoon dry mustard

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1 ˝ cups orange juice

In a 9-by 13-inch glass pan, make the marinade by combining the zest, juice, mustard, cumin, if using, and vinegar. Whisk in olive oil Spread out a sheet of plastic wrap approximately 2 feet long and place the chicken breasts on it. Spread another sheet of plastic wrap over the chicken breasts. Using the flat side of a mallet, pound the chicken breasts between the plastic to an even ˝ -inch thickness. Remove the plastic wrap and place the chicken breasts in the marinade. Cover and allow to marinate for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

When you are ready to cook the chicken, preheat the grill. Then prepare the sauce. In a wide skillet, melt the butter over low heat and stir in the flour. Cook this roux over low heat for a minute or two, until it bubbles. Add the sugar, cinnamon, mustard, and vinegar and stir until well combined.

Whisk in the orange juice, bring the heat up to medium, and stir until thickened. Lower the heat and cover the pan to keep the sauce hot while you grill the chicken.

Grill the chicken just until cooked through, 3 to 5 minutes per side. Do not overcook the chicken. When serving, place the grilled chicken on a heated platter, pour some of the sauce over it, and pass the rest of the sauce.

Serves 4

“Maybe.” Together, we packed the food for the doll people’s dinner into my van. When Macguire had left with the bag of burgers, I made sure the security system was armed. Then I hightailed it to Suz Craig’s house. I had half an hour before I needed to set up at the LakeCenter.

In the van I fumbled with the buttons on the Aspen Meadow Nursery shirt, then tied the apron around my waist and stuffed what I could of my curly hair under the cap. It was too bad the van said GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING on the side, but I hadn’t thought the Aspen Meadow Nursery cashier would want to loan me one of the nursery trucks.

I assumed a confident, businesslike expression, then hopped out of the van, carrying my shovel and spade. Walking quickly across the lawn, I rounded the house, which still had yellow police ribbons taped across each door. Lucky for me, I knew where the picket fence was. And just as Duke had indicated, next to the roses and musk mallow, gleaming white marble stepping-stones were set around three sides of the fence.

I dug under the first stone and upended it, then dug into the loosely packed soil underneath. Nothing. I set to work on the second and again encountered only dark, loamy dirt underneath the heavy stone. The third and fourth stones were the same.

Exhausted, I leaned back on my heels and wiped my brow. A cool mountain breeze ruffled the tree branches. Without warning, I saw a furtive movement by the next-door neighbor’s garage. I held stock-still and waited, but nothing appeared.

I gazed back at the mess I’d made of the path around Suz’s small picket fence enclosing her water tank. Two more stones to go. The fifth stone yielded nothing. Under the sixth and final stone I hit the real pay dirt. Under a loose inch of soil was a heavy-duty zippered bag. Inside were four audiocassettes.

27

Using my teeth, I wrenched off the work gloves. I shakily unzipped the bag and removed the tapes from their plastic boxes. To my surprise, they were labeled: Corey, Yuille, McCracken, Shelton. And every one was dated Monday, July 14. I shoved the tapes back into the plastic bag, folded the bag under my right arm, picked up the shovel and the spade, and scampered back to the van. I threw the bag of tapes onto the passenger seat, dumped the tools into the back, and jumped into the front seat.

As I was ripping off the nursery apron and shirt, I wondered how I was going to listen to the tapes. I wanted to hear them immediately, but I had to cook if I was going to get my job done. Sitting in my van attending to my tape player wouldn’t get the Babsie-doll people’s final meal prepared. Then I remembered what I’d first grabbed when I was looking for my tablecloth the night I encountered the vandals. I pawed wildly behind the driver’s seat and pulled out Macguire’s Walkman.

I shivered as I faced forward. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Why had I sensed another movement close by? Had someone sprinted across the street behind my vehicle? I set the earphones on my head, put in the McCracken tape, revved up the van, and accelerated down the street.

Voices crackled at a slight distance from the recording device. The first audible words were from Suz Craig. It was startling to hear her voice. “Minneapolis says we’re going to hove to settle, but I wasn’t ready to give in… . Chris? Didn’t she have on abortion a few years back? Anything we could do with that?”

Chris Corey’s rumbly voice was unmistakable: “Not an abortion. Her primary-core physician gave her a referral to a psychiatrist. Anxiety. Don’t know if we can use it. Or how.”

Suz snapped, “Put in a call to that Markasian woman, see if she can run something. God knows, I live in that town now, I have to read that local rag. Markasian’s gone on and on about McCracken’s damn suits. Now she can run an anonymous-source article about McCracken having emotional problems. That’ll balance things out. Make her do it, or we’ll pull our tastefull little ACHMO ad from that damn paper.”

The meeting was interrupted by a woman buzzing Suz to say that Ralph Shelton had arrived. The tape ended. A car behind me honked impatiently. I’d have to wait until I arrived at the LakeCenter before putting in another tape.

At the waterfall between the lake and Cottonwood Creek, the cormorants perched and preened and regally surveyed their domain. I would miss them when summer was over. Similarly, I would miss the red-winged blackbirds, noisy heralds of my arrival at precisely four o’clock at the side door of the LakeCenter. The guard, sitting in desultory fashion on a trash can, waved me over. I was willing to bet there was nothing about his guarding sojourn in Aspen Meadow that he would miss.

I pressed the rewind button on the Walkman, took the headphones off, put on my catering apron, and made my first trip through the side door. A cleaning crew of four-two men and two women-were buffing the highly polished wood floor and gently dusting the tables and displays. At my van, I slipped the Walkman and bag of tapes into my apron pockets. Then I hauled in my second box of supplies. When one of the cleaning women happened to glance up at me, I quickly turned away. I would listen as I worked. After schlepping my boxes into the empty kitchen, I laid out all the ingredients. I slipped in the next tape, marked “Shelton,” and began to layer vegetables over the shrimp.

Ralph and Suz exchanged a cold greeting before getting down to business. “You can’t hurt me like this, Suz.” Ralph Shelton’s frightened voice shook.

“Excuse me, Ralph, but I can. Know what a group of people from a California church congregation did? Drove two hundred miles to tell another congregation not to hire the priest they were firing. These folks didn’t trust the bishop to tell the church considering their old priest that this was a cleric with a credit-card problem. Thirty thousand in debt, to be exact.”

There was a pause, then Ralph spoke. “If you… if you… go to MeritMed with these complaints about me, which are totally frivolous, I’II tell everybody about your unauthorized use of patient files. Confidential files, mind you.” He tried to sound more confident. “And that’s not a frivolous complaint.”

“You helped me get some of those files. You wouldn’t dare go public. If I go under for using files, you’re coming.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was on the brink of tears. “You have no reason to be so cruel.”

This was followed by the sound of a door slamming.

Wow. I put in the tape marked “Corey.”

Suz’s voice began. “… you know I’ve told you how being so fat is unprofessional. And being ungrateful to me isn’t going to get you anywhere, either.”

Chris Corey’s voice rumbled, “I’m a physician. I don’t appreciate being humiliated in meetings. I’m tired of it.”

“Really?” said Suz. “You think complaining behind my back is going to do any good?”

“That wasn’t my idea,” intoned Chris.

“Don’t bring Brandon into this. What do you think, that if this job doesn’t work out, you’ll go back to being an orthopedic surgeon? You can’t just waltz back into being a doc, Chris, you’re as rusty as an old knife. Face it, you’re finished as an M.D.”

“I am so unbelievably tired of listening to you – “

“Something else. You don’t think I know all about your sister? Multiple-personality disorder, goes into trances when she’s stressed? Tell me, is she Tina when she’s taking care of stray animals and dressed up like a doll? Or is that Mary Louise, so prim and proper, who goes to church and doesn’t know a thing about dolls? You know I have access to her files. I know everything. Think the school where she works wouldn’t like to know about her long history of emotional instability? Think about leaving this job, or criticizing me again to Minneapolis, and your sister’s secret is all over the place.”

Chris’s voice quickly pleaded, “Don’t do that. Tina has only shown two personalities. She’s not violent. She’s no danger to anyone. She’s suffered so much… and now her personality’s fragmented… I take care of her. Please don’t hurt her.”

“I just want a fair shake,” Suz said firmly.

“You’ve got a problem, come to me, got it.? Those are the rules.”

End of tape. Multiple-personality disorder, good Lord. Actually, I should have suspected something at church. There, I’d asked Tina about a doll outfit and the cat. She’d acted as if she hadn’t known what in the world I was talking about. I’d put it down to stress over planning Suz’s funeral. But I hadn’t been talking to Tina; I’d been talking to Mary Louise. I shuddered to imagine the humiliation that Tina Corey would undergo if the administration at Aspen Meadow Preschool, much less the rest of people in town, found out about a history of psychological problems. For starters, she’d lose her job. Then she would be shunned. Whatever Tina’s problems were, if she was functional and her brother j was taking care of her, they were certainly none of Suz Craig’s business. I placed the Camembert slices over the vegetables, slipped in the fourth tape, and began on the last layers of the pie.

“You called them.” Suz Craig. “You set up the appointments. You got people to betray me. How do you think I’m supposed to feel?”

Brandon Yuille’s voice was the clearest yet.

“Suz, I had to, I had people coming to me day and night complaining about working with you. I couldn’t just ignore them.”

“Brandon, you could have talked to me – “

“I tried to talk to you. Before and after – “

“Before and after we broke up?” Suz’s laugh was sour. “Maybe I didn’t notice, what with all that passion.” Brandon said nothing. “Look, I know you’re hurt that I started going out with Korman, but he and I are right for each other. You’re too young.” Suz made young sound like a dirty word.

No wonder Brandon had blushed when he’d told me how caring Suz could be. I suddenly realized why Brandon wasn’t talking on the tape. He was crying.

“Brandon! Why did you call Minneapolis in? To punish me? Because it worked.”

I heard a sob. “I was trying to do my job

“Well, don’t do your job so well, okay?”

“I am going to do my job,” he said defiantly. “I’m in charge of Human Resources. Don’t tell me not to do my job.”

“Your job? Your job? You drag your sorry ass into this office late, day after day, looking more tired than a nomad lost six weeks in the desert. You’re not doing your job! And you don’t find me complaining about you, do you?”

“You’re the only one… who seems to mind that I don’t look good” I heard him blow his nose. He cleared his throat. “And I thought you didn’t care about how I looked anymore.”

Her voice was cruel. “Listen. If you call the Minneapolis people again, you’ll be very sorry. I’ll fire your ass and have your records altered so they say you have cancer. You’ll never get another HR job in Denver. You won’t be able to stay near your father. Something else. You don’t think I know your father supported a blond nurse down in Denver while your mother was sick? You think people in Aspen Meadow would wont to know their beloved pastry-shop owner two-timed his wife who was terminal with cancer?”

Even on the tape I could tell Brandon was startled. I could imagine his sparkling dark brown eyes and enthusiastic smile dimmed with pain. “My mother… ” – his anguished voice was just above a whisper – “was barely conscious for the last three months of her life. That other woman was her nurse.”

“An ACHMO nurse. Your father slept with her.”

“You’re insane.”

“He’s lonely, Brandon. During the day I’ll bet he’s lonely all the time.”

And that was the end of that tape. Sheesh! Again I was stunned that Suz Craig had had the audacity to make these tapes. And to threaten people like that? Incredible. I could certainly see why she’d felt she had to hide the tapes from July 14. These cassettes were much more incriminating of her than they were of the people she was attempting to blackmail. Although someone hadn’t thought so. Were there any tapes of the Jerk visiting her office?

Exhibition Salad with Meringue-Baked Pecans

Pecans:

1 egg white

ź teaspoon cinnamon

ź teaspoon salt

1/3 cup sugar

4 tablespoons melted butter

2 cups (˝ pound) pecan halves

Preheat the oven to 325°. Butter a shallow 10-by15I-inch jelly-roll pan.

Beat the egg white until stiff. Mix the cinnamon and salt into the sugar. Keeping the beater running, add the sugar mixture, 1 tablespoon at a time. Fold in the melted butter and the pecans. Spread the pecan mixture in the prepared pan and bake for 15 minutes.

Remove the pan from the oven. Using a spatula, carefully flip the pecan mixture one small section at a time. When all the pecans have been turned over, return the pan to the oven. Bake an additional 15 minutes. Watch them carefully-do not allow them to burn. Cool the pecans on paper towels.

(Only 1 cup of pecans is used in the preparation of the salad. The other cup can be eaten as a snack or frozen in a zippered plastic bag. These pecans also make a wonderful holiday gift.)

Sherry Vinaigrette:

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

ź teaspoon sugar

1 tablespoon best-quality sherry vinegar

2 tablespoons best-quality olive oil

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Whisk together the mustard, sugar, and vinegar. Whisking constantly, dribble in the olive oil. Add salt and pepper to taste. Makes ź cup.

Salad.

2 cups (2 ounces) fresh arugula

6 cups (6 ounces) of a mixture of fresh radicchio, endive, and escarole

ź cup sherry vinaigrette

1 cup sugared pecans

Wash, dry, and trim the arugula and the other greens. Tear them into large bite-size pieces. Just before serving, toss with the vinaigrette. Sprinkle the pecans over the top and toss again. Serve immediately.

Serves 4

I nudged the brioche dough over the pies and slid them into the ovens. They were the kind of concoction you could serve at room temperature or reheated. The final job was to prepare the promised salad. Macguire had filled several large zippered bags with freshly washed bunches of arugula and other delicate field greens. Before leaving home I’d snagged a jar of homemade sherry vinaigrette and packed up a batch of crusty, meringue-coated pecans.

By the time I had the salad assembled, the pie crusts were golden and puffed. The melted Camembert filling, with its garlic-and-herb seasoning, smelled heavenly. I carefully removed the pies and placed them on the counters to cool. I’d reheat them, along with the chicken, just before the closing supper.

I stared at the four tapes on the counter. I needed to do something with them. If Suz Craig had felt they were so incriminating that they should be buried, then I certainly didn’t want to keep them. ReeAnn had gotten herself blown up, I was willing to bet, by someone who thought she had these very tapes. I didn’t want to have them in the LakeCenter kitchen, in my van, or even in my home. I wanted them to be in a safe place until Tom could get them. But where?

As I scanned the ballroom, I couldn’t get the nasty, threatening voice of Suz Craig out of my head. What would she have been able to find out about me? I wondered. If she’d married John Richard, she could have gotten hold of Arch’s records from when he was in therapy after the divorce. Maybe she would have used them to gain a reduction in child support, or for some other, more sinister intent. I shuddered. I needed to call Tom. In my haste, I’d forgotten the cellular in the van.

While I was trotting back to my vehicle, I realized I now had to turn this whole thing over to Tom. I’d tried to sustain my relationship with Arch by fulfilling a promise to look into the case of the murder of Suz Craig. John Richard had been accused and appeared, for the most part, guilty. But the case had been more than a can of worms. It had been a tankful. With the tapes I’d discovered, and the physical evidence that would soon come back from the crime lab, Tom would help Donny Saunders figure out what had really happened to Suz.

Still, I couldn’t help wondering how someone could have known, or could have taken the time to find out, what he or she had to know to plan out the murder of Suz Craig. You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right. Timing was everything. Not only would the killer have to know all about Suz, he or she would have to know all about John Richard’s financial situation, what kind of car he drove, the ID bracelet, everything. And, most obscurely, the killer would also have to know under what circumstances John Richard used to beat me, what triggered his abusive rages. He or she would have to know about Suz and John Richard’s monthly anniversary celebrations and that getting the Jerk totally frustrated would set him off-like lighting a fuse. The killer could get him frustrated by sending him notice of a failure to receive a bonus, when he was already deep in financial hot water.

But it all seemed like a terribly long shot. There was still a slim chance that John Richard wouldn’t lose his temper, no matter how provoked.

In my van the cellular phone was bleating insistently. I grabbed it and flipped it open, but whoever it was had hung up. Arch? I called Tom but got his machine. I told him about the tapes and that he should send somebody up to the LakeCenter to retrieve them. Then I picked up the large plastic container of cookies.

The cleaning crew had left by the time I reentered the LakeCenter. The floor gleamed like a mirror and the thousands of little Babsie faces smiled beatifically at me. My cellular squawked again. I thumped the container of cookies down on the counter and reached for it.

“Goldy? Where’ve you been?” It was Frances Markasian. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! What’d you give me this number for if – “

“Spare me, Frances.”

“What happened?” she cried. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the LakeCenter doing a catering job for the doll show. What do you want?”

“One of my sources told me a woman with a van was snooping around at Suz Craig’s house, digging around outside. Was it you? What did you find?”

“Nothing. And who’s your source?”

“Suz’s neighbor, Lynn Tollifer. She saw your van and called me. Did you find those tapes?”

“Frances, you’re too much.”

“Well, I didn’t, I mean… I’m coming over. I want those tapes!”

“Forget it! The cops get them – “

“So help me, Goldy, I’ll strip that van of yours and pull every pot out of that LakeCenter kitchen, I’ll – “

“Cool it, Frances, I don’t have the tapes,” I lied.

“You’re lying, I swear. I’m in a meeting, and my editor won’t let me leave. But I’ll be over there in half an hour, so help me – “

I disconnected.

Oh, brother. Wait a minute. This place had a live security guard. This place also had vigilante collectors if the guard couldn’t do his job. Again, I scanned the LakeCenter ballroom. Where could I put the tapes, in a place that would take Frances forever to find them? The table full of Holiday Babsies looked the most promising. They all belonged to Gail Rodine, and she wasn’t selling. I’d stash them in the doll boxes, call Tom again, and have the cops figure it all out.

It was unlikely that I’d have the place to my-self for long, so I raced across the ballroom to the right display and slipped one tape each under the skins of Holiday Babsies from 1991, 1992, 1993, and 1994. There were at least thirty dolls there. Gail Rodine lived in Aspen Meadow, and when she took the dolls back home, Tom could get the tapes without much trouble. He wouldn’t be happy about it, though.

When I tucked the flap of the last box into place, I heard a loud thump at the front of the LakeCenter. My skin turned cold. The Jerk. Had I locked the side door? I couldn’t remember. I trotted toward it. Unfortunately, the slickly polished floor was as slippery as a skating rink. I skidded sideways, desperately twisted to regain my balance, and finally managed to land with a crash on both of my hands. I yelped with pain. By the time this case was over, I’d be covered in bruises from head to toe.

I tried to roll over and was only partially successful. My back seemed to have regained its flexibility, but the only thing really paining me now was my left hand, in particular, my left thumb. Broken in three places by the Jerk, and destined forever to give me trouble.

I looked at my aching thumb. I looked at it and looked at it, and I had a dawning sense of horror. You’ll be throwing pizza in no time, the orthopedic surgeon had told me after a particularly savage beating had brought me to the hospital along with the broken thumb. He knew the pattern of bruises inflicted by the Jerk because he’d seen them before. I’ll be kicking field goals in no time, he’d promised, much later. What do you think… you’ll go back to being an orthopedic surgeon? Suz had said. Your voice sounds so familiar, I’d said. Did you treat Arch.?

No. He’d treated me. A long time ago. He could plan the murder because he knew exactly what to do and how to make it look as if John Richard Korman had done it.

At that moment the side door of the LakeCenter swung open and Chris Corey appeared, a heavy, bearded study in fury. He saw me on the floor, holding my aching thumb. He snarled: “I see you’re still good at getting yourself injured! How’s the thumb? And while you’re telling me, give me those tapes!”

28

I scrambled to my feet. Pain shot through my body, but I had to think. The front door to the LakeCenter was locked; the back door was locked – for security. Somehow I had to get out through the entrance where Chris Corey stood.

“I don’t have them,” I replied shakily.

“I know you do! I paid that kid, Luke Tollifer, to watch Suz’s house. Where are they?”

“In the car, in the car! My van!”

“Show me!”

I made my way to the door, thinking I might be able to slip past him and run. Before I could squeak by, however, he grabbed my left hand, and then my thumb. Cruelly, he twisted it behind my back. I yelped. At the same time, I noticed the cast on his ankle had mysteriously vanished.

“Where’s your phone?”

“In… in my apron pocket.” He felt inside my pocket with his free hand, tugged my phone out, and sent it skittering across the shiny floor. “I want the tapes, then I’ll leave. Walk to your van, get those tapes, then I’m gone.

Scream, and I swear to God I’ll hit you harder than I did her.”

Oh, God. Fear washed through my body. My feet slid out from under me. He wrenched me up off the slippery floor.

“Please, Chris, don’t,” I gasped. “Think about what this is going to do to you. To Tina.”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Think about Tina’ is what I should have done before, huh? Move.”

“Okay, okay,” I gasped. My thumb throbbed in agony. I feared I’d pass out. Chris pushed me forward through the threshold of the side door. I looked back at him, insanely confused that his limp had also disappeared. As he fiercely nudged me along the log wall, a gaggle of redwing blackbirds erupted from the wetlands bordering the LakeCenter.

I looked around wildly for help. The parking lot was empty except for my van. Where had Chris parked? I thought about screaming. But who would hear me? We were hundreds of yards from the road, even farther from the Lakeview Shopping Center.

As we rounded the building, Chris pushed me along the sidewalk toward the parking lot. I caught a I glimpse of a car on the far side of the building – the side opposite the kitchen. Of course. He’d driven up quietly and parked away from the kitchen. And naturally he knew how to be quiet; hadn’t he approached Suz’s house in the darkness and quiet, in a Jeep just like John Richard’s?

The guard was no help. Chris had clobbered him – the crash I’d heard at the front – and he lay sprawled next to the trash can.

“Where are the tapes?” Chris asked as we neared my van.

“Ahh … aah …”

He wrenched my thumb brutally. “Where?”

“I can’t … think … if you’re hurting me,” I protested in a low voice. I was using negotiating skills I had learned long ago, to keep John Richard from hurting me. When he relented a bit, I said, “Aah … under the… passenger seat. It’s a tight squeeze, you’ll never be able to reach. Better let me … get them.”

The first cars of the doll people appeared at the far end of the dirt-road entryway to the LakeCenter. Stall, stall, I thought desperately. Chris wrenched open the passenger-side door and pushed me inside, still gripping my thumb.

“You have to let go of me,” I gasped. “Or I can’t get them.” I tried to think. Where was my tire iron? Did I have any spare kitchen utensils anywhere, something I could use on him? He shoved me into the van on my stomach. But at least he relinquished his death-grip on my thumb. I reached under the seat with my numb left hand. Nothing, of course. “Hold on,” I called. “Just a sec.”

He yanked back on my legs so violently that I thought I would break in two. I landed half in, half out, and on my side.

“Help!” I screamed. I had no idea if the doll people were even within earshot. “Somebody! Help!”

Chris picked me up by the waist and threw me on my back on the passenger-side seat. Then he flung his whole, heavy body on top of me. His fleshy hand clamped over my mouth. I kicked wildly. But with him on top of me and outweighing me by a good one hundred and fifty pounds, I had zero leverage.

“Shut up!” he breathed. His hand tightened on my throat. Panic shot through me. He was going to strangle me. I’d never see Arch again. Or Tom. I thrashed wildly. Chris’s hand slipped off my throat. The glove compartment banged open.

Marla’s bag of drugs fell onto the van floor. Oh God, help me, I prayed as I strained under Chris’s weight. I groped desperately. Keep calm, keep calm, keep calm. I reached into the bag, found nothing, scrabbled around frantically. Then my fingers closed over what I sought. I popped off the needle cover.

Chris had grabbed my throat again. He squeezed. With every ounce of strength I had left, I stabbed him with Marla’s hypodermic of Versed. I pushed down on the plunger, hard.

Stunned, Chris squealed with pain. His hold on me relaxed momentarily. He screamed again and hauled back to tear the needle from his body. I scrambled through the open door. By the time I was outside, Chris was stumbling dazedly down the parking lot, toward the LakeCenter and his car.

I watched him, open-mouthed, gasping for breath. Was he going to just… take off? Was he so big that a dose of a superpotent tranquilizer had no effect on him? He faltered, appeared to trip, and then staggered forward.

“The Babsies!” I screamed at the large group of beautifully dressed women who were sashaying across the lot toward the LakeCenter door. “That big blond man! He’s stolen them!” I pointed at Chris. He turned to stare open-mouthed at me, not comprehending. He was slowing down, no question. But he was only twenty feet from his car. “The Babsies!” I shrieked again at the women, gesticulating wildly. “That man knocked out the guard! He’s going to take the dolls!”

The women started to trot. Chris gaped at them. Then he turned and floundered toward his vehicle. The women picked up speed.

“No, no!” he cried as the first doll collector attacked him. “No!” I heard him shout when two more women jumped on him. Bellowing in astonishment, he staggered forward. Then, under the on-slaught of furious Babsie protectors, he fell to his knees.

I walked shakily back to the LakeCenter to call the sheriff’s department. Chris Corey wasn’t going anywhere.

29

Tom, as it turned out, had been up at his cabin. Empty since high creekwaters had flooded the first floor with two inches of water, unrented since Arch, Tom, and I had spent several weekends scraping off dried mud, the cabin now awaited a professional interior paint job. When Tom drove up and parked half a mile away, then used a little-known path through the woods to approach the place from the back, he had a hunch that the cabin held a squatter – one of the very few people who knew about the flood damage and the time we’d spent cleaning the place up. Unfortunately, John Richard hadn’t figured that Tom would be able to take him so easily. By the time Tom arrested the Jerk again, Sergeant Beiner had appeared at the LakeCenter and arrested Chris Corey.

That night, Chris confessed to the murder. He had wanted to end the torment of working for Suz Craig. He remembered how John Richard had attacked me; he had waited for the right time – the silly monthly anniversary. He had stolen the ID bracelet when John Richard was helping a woman with an induced delivery that had been scheduled – and approved – by ACHMO. Finally, he had written the bonus-denial letter. The drug screen on Suz’s body fluids indicated that she, too, had been the recipient of a high-potency tranquilizer: morphine. Once Chris had primed John Richard to beat Suz, all Chris had to do was go to Suz’s door pretending to be distraught and wanting to talk things out. He’d offered to treat her contusions, then he’d given her a shot much like the one I’d given him. He’d waited until the bruises from John Richard appeared. Then he’d killed her by whacking her with the carpet-covered, solid-metal scratching post. Finally, he’d laid her in the ditch, with the bracelet as the nail in John Richard’s coffin. And then he’d gone back to pretending to be a helpful, sympathetic guy, complete with a fake cast.

He just hadn’t figured on the tapes. Luella Downing had called him, as well as Brandon, on Saturday to tell him about the existence of Suz’s secret taping. He’d used the visit to John Richard’s office to look for them. ReeAnn – his ally – had told him she’d didn’t have them. In desperation, he’d tried to blow up ReeAnn – he’d learned she was meeting her boyfriend for an outdoor lunch – because he had a feeling she’d stolen the tapes from John Richard. But just in case she hadn’t, he’d paid Suz’s nosy teenage neighbor, Luke Tollifer, to watch Suz’s house, which is how he found out about my digging effort.

That evening the results came back from the crime lab: the skin and hair under Suz Craig’s fingernails belonged to John Richard Korman. John Richard was charged with first-degree assault and tampering with a witness. They’re talking about a plea bargain, but it looks as if he’ll face at least two years in prison.

After the police hauled Chris Corey away from the LakeCenter, Sergeant Beiner took the briefest of statements from me and seized the tapes I pulled from their hiding places in the doll boxes. Gail Rodine, looking on, glared. I’d never get a Babsie booking again as long as I lived. I somehow managed to finish the dinner for the doll people. Happily, the preparation was easy; I couldn’t have handled any additional grilling.

On Thursday morning, the day after Chris Corey was arrested, I saw Frances Markasian at Suz’s memorial service. Afterward, we talked. I wanted her to leave Arch out of any article she wrote about the case and Chris’s arrest. She felt terrible about being duped by Chris, and apologized for yelling at me about the tapes. Of course, I forgave her. Frances said she’d already talked to Brandon Yuille about an expose on Suz’s use of confidential medical files. Brandon had told Frances to tell me Ralph Shelton had agreed to cooperate; he would try to get Amy Bartholomew to help, too. I accepted Frances’s promise to keep Arch out of her wrap-up article on the case.

Unfortunately, Tina Corey’s mental illness did get leaked, and not just to the Mountain Journal. Both the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News reported on her history of multiple-personality disorder. She went into a stress trance and ended up in the psychiatric ward of St. Joseph’s Hospital. No visitors allowed.

On Friday afternoon, Arch came home. Tom had called him and they’d talked for over two hours. My son was having a hard time, as was to be expected. Macguire picked Arch up at the Druckmans’, then drove him to the Coreys’ house, where they helped the Mountain Animal Protective League load up Tippy the cat and Tina’s other pets into a van, so the animals could be delivered to foster caretakers. But back at home, Arch was dejected. Even when Julian Teller called, saying he was coming for a visit, Arch did not appear cheered. Macguire offered to talk to him up in his room. After the two boys went up, Marla phoned and told us all to sit tight, she was bringing us takeout Vietnamese food for dinner.

Tom and I sat together on the couch. He pulled me close, and I felt the tension that had knotted my body for the last week begin to ebb. He said, “The only thing I can’t understand is why you just wouldn’t let Korman take the fall for this. I’m glad we’ve got the right guy, don’t get me wrong. But you’ve wanted revenge for so long. Don’t deny it now, I can read you better than you think, Miss G. Plus, this seemed like a perfect opportunity to get Korman sent down. And not just for a year or two.” I sat for a long time, thinking, enfolded in his arms. “I couldn’t sacrifice Arch. Just to get my revenge, I mean. Chris Corey wanted his revenge on Suz, and his sister got trampled in the process.”

“God,” he said, “I love you.”

“Mom?” Arch’s call came from the bottom of the stairs. “Mom?”

I stood up. “Yes, hon.” He wore a crumpled khaki shirt and baggy black shorts. I wondered if he’d had a shower in the time he’d been at the Druckmans’ house. Even his glasses were smeared.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

His chin trembled. “Will you… will you take me to see Dad?”

“Oh, please, honey.” I beckoned, and he ran toward me. I held him tight, as I always had, from when he was very small. I said, “Of course.”