The Main Corpse

“It’s probably FedEx,” she hissed in my ear, “with some more stuff from Jeppesen for my husband.” When I looked confused, she explained, “Maps. But he’s also ordered a load of information on diamond mining in South Africa. If the guy rings again, would you get it? The security’s off” So when the chime tolled for the umpteenth time, I marched out to answer it.

It wasn’t FedEx. It was the police. One cop was a towering, muscled redhead. The other was slimmer, with an acne-scarred face and jet-black hair above a receding hairline. They wore plain clothes, but their sheriffs department vehicle, invisible from the kitchen window, was pulled conspicuously perpendicular to the Trotfields’ crowded driveway. No one from this party was getting on Arnold Palmer Avenue without these cops’ say-so.

“Mrs. Schulz?” A familiar, chilly trickle of fear shot through me. “Tom. It’s Tom, isn’t it? Something’s wrong. What’s happened?” I cursed myself for not answering the insistent ringing earlier.

The short fellow, whose wiry black hair had been severely pomaded down to conform to his missile-shaped head, frowned. “No, nothing’s wrong, we’re just here to talk. Ask a few questions about – “

“About what?”

“Mrs. Schulz, please,” said the big redhead, looking uncomfortable. I laughed as relief swept over me. Of course! This had something to do with the Trotfields. Maybe one of the neighbors had complained about all the cars. “Yes,” I said to the two policemen. “I’m sorry. Let me go get Mrs. Trotfield.” Then I hesitated. After all, I was the caterer: I had a professional obligation to protect this party. “Her guests are almost through their entree… any chance you could come back later?”

“We’re here to see you,” rasped the redhead. His eyes bulged. “Just to ask a few questions, Mrs. Schulz. Would it be possible for us to see you someplace private? For maybe ten minutes? Someplace where it isn’t raining?” The downpour had soaked through his dark windbreaker.

My concern about Tom turned to disbelief: The last thing I needed at this moment was another disrupted party and a disgruntled client.

Are you serious? Can’t this wait?” I hissed indignantly. “Please? Do you know who my husband is? I can come down to the department tomorrow. I’ll answer all the questions you want then.”

“We know who you are and it can’t wait,” replied the black-haired man grimly. “It’s about Albert Lipscomb.”

Tom’s words: Shockley’s put himself personally in charge of the investigation. I took a steadying breath. “Let’s get into the kitchen, then.” I opened the door. “Please come quickly before any of the guests see you.”

They followed me into the foyer, where to my annoyance, they stopped to take in their surroundings. I felt trickle of impatience. Before I met Tom, I’d heartily disliked the police. Perhaps my misgivings about the sheriffs department had developed from the fact that when I was deeply bruised and even more deeply depressed, the cops had been unwilling or unable to lock up the Jerk and toss the key to his cell over the Continental Divide. After the divorce, I’d realized that law enforcement folks, unfortunately, don’t have a whole lot of power in domestic disputes unless someone is killed. Marrying Tom and going through the harrowing experience of having him kidnapped by a would-be killer, I’d also come to realize how dangerous his work with the department could be, and how steadfastly most cops carried out their responsibilities. So my attitude had done a complete turnaround. Nevertheless, in the presence of these two men who now stood brushing raindrops off their clothes in the Trotfields’ art-filled foyer, I couldn’t shake my old feeling of discomfort.

“Excuse me, but before we go any further, could I see some ID? Quickly?” I asked. I glanced into the living room. No one looked my way.

The portly redhead with the bulging eyes, I learned, was Investigator Hersey. The black-haired fellow with the missile-shaped head was named De Groot. Neither gave any indication that they knew Tom, which for some reason I didn’t take as a good sign. I handed them back their identification cards, then motioned toward the kitchen.

Hersey puffed himself up as if to follow, but De Groot kept his muddy boots planted on the Trotfields’ Oriental runner. He patted his greasy black hair and stared intently at the deep blue canvas that had so puzzled Arch. After a few moments he leaned over and brought his face up close to the painted cigarette image.

“It’s by Robert Motherwell,” I said, still impatient.

“It’s – “

“One of his Gauloise paintings,” De Groot said without looking away from the painting. Then he straightened and gave me a deadpan look. “The series he started after The Elegies to the Spanish republic.”

“Do you mind, sir?” I whispered. “Could we please go out to the kitchen? I’m trying to do a job here.” De Groot raised his shaggy black eyebrows. When he didn’t move, I rushed on with: “The Trotfields are very wealthy art collectors. I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll come out to the kitchen and ask your ten minutes worth of questions there.”

De Groot stared straight into my eyes as he said, “Very wealthy like your friend Marla Korman?”

I could feel the color rise in my cheeks. What was going on here? Hersey walked past me into the kitchen. De Groot lifted his pointy chin and swaggered after him. I peeked into the living room. Sandy Trotfield wrinkled his forehead at me and scowled. Doggone it. Caterer caught with cops. I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, but he looked past me into the foyer, puzzled If this inopportune visit from the sheriffs department ruined this party the way Marla’s fight had wrecked the mine party, I would have Captain Shockley’s head on a platter.

Arch had removed his headphones and was saying, “… Well, she’s my mother,” when I banged through the kitchen door. My son gave me a bewildered look. I asked him to tend to the buffet platters and told him I would be talking to these men for ten minutes or less.

“You know you can’t question a minor without a parent present. What’s the matter with you two?” I demanded angrily once Arch had made a wordless exit. “And what’s so important it can’t wait for me to get home?” Next to the counter where the raspberry pies sat partially decorated and unsliced, De Groot stood at attention. I guessed he wasn’t going to have a go at the Rothko above the kitchen table. Hersey leaned his muscled body against a convection oven. There was a small notebook in one of his meaty hands. For guys who had been in some kind of hurry, they now seemed to have reverted to a designed-to-be-infuriating interrogation technique. Or maybe they were waiting for me to offer them food. It’s not going to happen, guys.

Finally Hersey hauled himself up. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Schulz. We just need to ask about an event you catered this past Saturday at the Eurydice Mine. Did you know that was one of the last times anyone saw Albert Lipscomb before his disappearance?”

“No, I guess I didn’t know that,” I replied. I glared at the cops. Maybe I could get information from them. “What do you mean, one of the last times?”

They ignored this. De Groot said, “And your function at the party was what?”

“I’m sure you’re aware I was just the caterer, not a guest. I’d never met most of those people before.” I paused, because I knew they’d want me to clarify that. “Excuse me. The people I knew at the party were Marla Korman, Tony Royce, ah … Eileen Tobey from the bank and… let’s see, the Hardcastles I’ve known for a while and … the Trotfields. Oh yes, and I know Sam Perdue.”

“Did you talk to Albert Lipscomb during the party?” De Groot’s pitted face was inscrutable.

I shrugged. “Not much. He asked about the food I was serving. He said Prospect Financial would consider having me cater a picnic. He was just being polite, I think. Why do you want to know if I talked to him?”

“Please, Mrs. Schulz. Let us ask the questions. So you’re saying… he was enjoying the party,” De Groot concluded. “For a while, anyway. Until he got into a fight with your friend Marla.”

“An argument, I’d call it. Not a fight,” I said firmly.

“Argument about what?” asked De Groot. His eye finally caught the Rothko, but this time, apparently, I was going to be spared further enlightenment on the history of abstract expressionism.

“Who sent you?” I demanded. “Why didn’t Tom come ask me these questions himself?”

Hersey said, “Investigator Schulz isn’t on this case.”

“That’s not normal, is it?” I asked mildly. “Tom does more than homicide, and he usually heads cases like this. He does forgery, mail theft. And missing persons,” I added after a pause.

Hersey retorted, “It’s normal for an investigator to be removed from a case when he knows some of the people in the investigation. We’re under direct orders from our captain. Now, please, Mrs. Schulz. Just tell us about this fight on Saturday between Mr. Lipscomb and Ms. Korman. Did you hear them?”

I paused a beat before saying, “Not really. They were outside of the tent where I was catering, and hail was coming down rather hard.”

“Whose idea was that?” asked De Groot. “To go out in the hail? Your friend Marla’s? How did Albert Lipscomb react to a client dragging him out into the hail to fight?”

“Did Captain Shockley say Marla dragged Albert out into the hail?” I retorted. Neither cop replied. “There was no dragging. Albert went outside first, then Marla followed him.” I tsked. What was their game plan here? Whatever it was, I had to get the raspberry tarts ready. I glared at De Groot. “I need to work, if you don’t mind.”

De Groot moved away from the counter. I quickly spooned the rest of the whipped cream on all the pies, then sprinkled them with fresh, plump raspberries. I cut each tart into eight equal pieces, then levered the thick slices out and put them on individual plates.

Hersey asked, “What were Albert and Marla fighting about?”

Marla had told me the cops had been around her home asking questions, so these guys surely already knew the answer to that one. “The lab doing the assays for Eurydice ore,” I said impatiendy. “You know Marla is a Prospect client. I think she was upset about how Albert was handling an investment. I can’t believe you haven’t been able to learn all you need to know about this from other people who were at the party. Everyone was listening.”

At that moment, Sandy Trotfield pushed into the kitchen. When he saw the two policemen, he recoiled.

“What are you two doing here again? Wasn’t one investigative visit enough?” he demanded. “We’re trying to have a party. First you bother us, now you’re bothering our caterer. Why can’t you keep normal hours?”

“We’ll be done in a few minutes,” De Groot said with a curt nod.

“Some people are asking about coffee and dessert,” Sandy Trotfield announced to me, as if the two policemen weren’t there.

“Coming right up,” I replied. Sandy stormed out of the kitchen. So the two policemen had already visited the Trotfields. Maybe that was when De Groot had gotten his art lesson. To Hersey, I said, “So you’ve talked to everyone who was at the party?”

“Just about.”

I switched on the coffeepot. “Then do me a favor and don’t belabor this. If you’re working directly for Captain Shockley, he ought to be able to tell you what happened.” Emphasis on the ought, I added mentally. “After all, he was there, too.”

Hersey said, “Shockley said you helped break up the fight. You were right next to Albert Lipscomb. How did he seem to you? Like a guy whose scam had been discovered? Like, now that something had come out about the mine, he had to get out of Dodge?”

“Why is Captain Shockley so interested in Marla’s argument with Albert Lipscomb?” I demanded.

Hersey repeated blandly, “How did Albert Lipscomb seem to you?”

I closed my eyes and again saw Albert Lipscomb’s furious thin lips and shining wet pate. “Hard to tell.” I opened my eyes and concentrated on Hersey. “Marla told Albert she wanted to see him Monday morning at the Prospect offices. There was nothing in the way he acted to indicate to me that he was going to run away. He was just… ticked off. It happens at parties. People drink too much. They argue. They sleep it off and call me the next morning with a hangover and ask if they did anything really stupid. If I want repeat business, I always say no.”

“But Albert didn’t say he’d meet Marla Monday morning?” Hersey persisted. De Groot crossed his arms and waited his turn. The coffeepot burbled and hissed, and the wake-up smell of java filled the room.

“No,” I replied evenly. “He didn’t say he’d be there.”

“What about Tony Royce?” asked De Groot. . “What was he doing while they were fighting?”

I gave De Groot a half-smile. “Tony Royce helped to break up the disagreement. He was as upset as I was, and was worried about Marla, as I was. But twenty minutes later he seemed to have recovered. I don’t think he’d had as much to drink as Albert.”

Watching Hersey’s bulging eyes, I wondered vaguely about thyroid medication. Six years the ex-wife of a doctor, and I was still jumping’ in to diagnose.

“Did you know Lipscomb before the party?” Hersey asked.

“Not at all.” Although at this point I was desperately wishing that I had, since he’d successfully absconded with millions of dollars that included some of my best friend’s money. From the tone of their questions, I tried to assess how much these cops knew about Lipscomb. Not a whole lot, it seemed to me.

I asked them, “What do you know about the bank teller who disappeared?”

Before either had a chance to answer, Amanda Trotfield chose that moment to bolt into the kitchen. Fast on her heels was her husband.

“Enough!” Amanda’s voice was fierce. “I’ve had as much as I’ll stand of you two policemen invading our lives! Get out! If you want to talk to the cook, go to her almighty house, not ours!” She stabbed an auburn-painted fingernail in my direction. Her eyes blazed. “And you. Get those pies and coffees out there, or there will be no check.”

I gestured helplessly in the direction of the pie slices and the coffeepot with its glowing red light. I certainly didn’t appreciate her threatening me in front of these cops.

Hersey looked at Mrs. Trotfield, who was quivering with indignation, then jotted in his notebook. He pressed his lips together. “Okay, Mrs. Schulz, go back to your cooking. We appreciate your taking some time for us.” He nodded at De Groot.

I didn’t see the policemen to the door. Neither, I was sure, did the Trotfields.

9

When Arch and I got home, Tom was sitting in the living room talking to Jake. Actually, he was murmuring to Jake. Cajoling him. The man never gives up. Easily distracted by our arrival, Jake thumped his tail supportively as he drooled long skeins of saliva on our living room rug.

Tom appraised me. “Uh-oh. Looks like she had another unhappy evening. Come on and have something to eat. You probably haven’t had a bite all day.” He gestured to his offerings: English crackers, a cheddar spread veined with port, a soft drink for Arch, and a bottle of dry sherry. “Which is worse, not having jobs, or having bad jobs?”

“Can’t decide.” I dropped onto the couch beside him and spread a hillock of the rich, smooth cheese onto a thick cracker. I bit into it: divine. “Thanks for all this.”

“Yeah, this is great!” Arch exclaimed after swigging the pop. He patted Jake enthusiastically. “What have you guys been up to?” Jake was now a guy, I noted.

Tom’s green eyes shone. “We have a trick to show you. Arch, remember we were talking about a game to resociaIize Jake? So that he could deal with new situations?”

Arch nodded vigorously.

Tom said, “Let’s let your mom do this one.” He turned to me. “Here’s what we do. I’ll hide. You say the word f-i-n-d.”

I asked demurely, “Do you have a dog biscuit in your pocket, or will he be glad to see you?”

Arch said, “Mom? What are you talking about?”

Tom’s handsome face remained unperturbed. “Joke, joke, Miss G., go ahead. Before you give him the command, allow me a few minutes.”

He walked out of the room. Jake’s mournful eyes followed him anxiously. I called after Tom: “Two of the morons who work for Shockley came to interrogate me during the dinner. Maybe you could resocialize them next.”

When Tom didn’t answer, I turned to Jake and said dubiously, “Find?”

Jake scrambled off, nose to the carpet. Arch watched him, transfixed. Within fifteen seconds, Tom strolled triumphantly back into the room. Jake pranced and whined alongside. Tom told Jake what a great job he’d done, and the hound enthusiastically climbed Tom’s chest. After the obligatory biscuit-gift, the dog and Arch took off for his room, and Tom sat down next to me.

“Which two morons? Now that Shockley makes the assignments, the morons are everywhere.”

“De Groot and Hersey.”

He groaned and poured himself a glass of sherry. “The Odd Squad. Shockley’s right-hand goons. Those two guys so completely botched a robbery case of mine that I avoid working with them whenever possible.”

“Yeah, well, I wish I could have avoided them. Oh,” I toasted him and added matter-of-factly, “something else. I saw the general today, and you’ll never guess what the two of us experienced together.”

Tom smiled mischievously. “Don’t tell me. An explosion. Wait, let me guess. C-four, his favorite. It was a very big explosion, and you were safely far away.”

“It might’ve been an explosion some distance away that precipitated a very big landslide, and I was on the edge of it.” I sipped sherry, related the events of the afternoon, and, remembering Bo’s queries, asked if Tom had ever heard of environmental statements being done for a mine.

“You mean the claims?” When I shrugged, he said, “I think those are recorded with the county clerk, as well as down in Denver with some state agency. And I’m pretty sure operating mines have to be inspected periodically for safety. And hey, speaking of safety?” He gave me a searching look. “A landslide? What on earth were you doing?”

“Nothing,” I protested. “Not a thing. It’s not like an avalanche, where you can plan to trigger it. I mean, unless you have the right weather conditions and use an explosive. In this case, all we had was a full moon, and the fact that they were working with explosives in the area,” I added as I reached for another cracker. Tom was right: I was ravenous.

He shook his head. “I swear, Goldy, you get into more trouble in a day than I do in a year.”

“I don’t go looking for trouble,” I protested, mouth full.

“Oh, please. You know how many crooks have said that to me?”

“Thanks loads.” I wagged a finger at him. “I’m going to find out what’s going on with this financial firm. Prospect’s chief investment officer dies in Idaho Springs, one of the partners disappears, my friend’s money gets stolen.” I paused to lick creamy cheese from my fingers, then continued with my litany: “A problem with assay reports. Idiot cops hovering to insult and intimidate people.”

Tom’s look was somber. “It’s a missing persons case, Miss G. That’s it. It’s not even a needle in a haystack. It’s a caraway seed.”

I scooted over on the couch and gave him an affectionate squeeze. I do love a man who makes culinary metaphors.

The next morning, Friday, the phone rang early. Marla.

“Okay, listen,” she began without preamble, “I’m sorry to be calling you so early, or so late as it turns out, but Tony thought that I ordered the food for this weekend, and of course I thought that he had, and we need nonperishables, if you can imagine. So I was thinking – “

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you have the wrong number. And why didn’t you warn me about those idiot cops?”

“I tried.” She groaned. “Awful, aren’t they? They offended the Hardcastles by implying they were nitwits for investing in an abandoned mine. And listen to this. First thing that happened at the Trotfields’ place? You’ll never guess. As soon as the two cops came into the house, De Groot sneezed on the Motherwell. But listen, I do need to talk to you about the food for our fishing trip – “

“I thought you and Tony weren’t getting along.”

“We’re not, but it’s temporary. And contrary to the prevailing opinion in Colorado, I don’t think schlepping into the cold, wet mountains is going to transform us into a healed couple. But Tony’s desperate to get away for a couple of days, and he’s told everybody he’s going, so if he comes back without any fish, he’ll lose face.”

We said in unison, “Machismo.”

“But,” I protested, “aren’t you leaving soon? As in this afternoon? I may be able to cook fast, but I’m not superhuman – “

“Oh Goldy, please don’t say no, you have such a knack with food, and Tony really is a wreck – “

I sighed. “Hold on.” I tied a robe around my waist and scanned the bedroom. Tom was not under the covers. Oh, yes. I’d sleepily registered his predawn departure. What was it he’d said? Something about female soccer players getting into a brawl at an indoor game last night. Apparently the referee failed to whistle penalties for lots of rough play, and the game ended in a free-for-all. The cops arrested one of the goalkeepers, and Tom’s presence was needed this morning to deal with the mess. One thing I’d learned in the last year: Policemen work a lot harder than doctors. And at odder hours. I stared at the clock: seven-thirty. I had to get cracking on my weekly muffins-and-coffee cake assignment for the Bank of Aspen Meadow. But guilt cut between these considerations. Marla had given me so many business referrals that I felt duty-bound to squeeze her in. And of course, she was my best friend. Besides, if I didn’t intervene, she would eat fat-loaded junk food.

“Look, Marla, I have a job this morning, and then I’m meeting you and Tony for lunch at Sam’s Soups. Why don’t I bring you some food then?”

“Oh gosh, could you?”

I glanced out the window and thought my eyes must be deceiving me, because it wasn’t raining. It was just very, very cloudy and dark. “What I’m trying to tell you,” I said patiently, ”is that I’m not going to be packing a fresh whole stuffed turkey for you. You’d get ptomaine. I’ll fix one cozy campfire dinner, and you can do the freeze-dried routine for the rest of the time. Okay? By the way, what are you going to do about fresh water? And firewood? The ground is soaked.”

She said that fuel, water, and beverages were Tony’s department, that they’d need enough food and snacks to get through the weekend, and she’d see me at Sam’s at noon for my taste-test. I threw open the upstairs window and took a deep breath of moist mountain air. Fog was moving, ghostlike, through the sodden branches of the pine trees. I wouldn’t want to be out fishing this weekend.

I stretched through a yoga routine, got dressed, then answered a call from Todd Druckman’s mother, Kathleen. Some vacationing neighbors had given her Rockies tickets for the weekend. She wanted to invite Arch to Coors Field for a doubleheader against the Dodgers. I was profusely thankful that Arch would have something to do during the day besides retrain Jake.

I awakened Arch, who was none too happy to be brought to consciousness before eleven on a summer morning. But the promise of spending even a foggy day watching the Blake Street Bombers – a quartet of the Rockies’ best players – and the rest of the beloved baseball team brightened his spirits considerably. I promised I’d bring Jake inside if it started to rain, and yes, the dear hound could stay in Arch’s room while I was out. Then I gave my son breakfast and managed to convince him to wear a waterproof jacket before he slipped out the back door.

I checked the computer for my morning assignment at the bank. It was one of my favorite regular jobs, as I usually heard enough gossip from Eileen Tobey, the bank manager, to last a full month. Eileen infused all of her stories with great drama, which might explain why in her spare time she was the diva of the Aspen Meadow theater group. When she wasn’t playing Blanche DuBois or Lady Macbeth, she was on the phone tracking down the town’s latest rumors. Eileen was the kind of person who became your closest friend when a misfortune – cancer diagnosis, contested divorce, suicide of a relative – befell you. Unfortunately, the intimacy did not last a week past her learning every grisly detail of your crisis. And since she found out everyone’s details, she was the most remarkably informed gossip I knew. She’d been talking to Albert at the Eurydice Mine party. Given her personality, I knew I could pump her for information today and she’d never even speculate about the reasons for my nosiness.

I ground Italian roast coffee beans and watched twin spurts of dark liquid hiss out of my machine. Then I sipped the espresso and tried to remember what I’d heard lately about Eileen herself. This past January, Eileen’s ex-husband had filed for bankruptcy within a week of Eileen being named the new branch manager of the Bank of Aspen Meadow. I seemed to recall a rumor that she had celebrated both events with none other than Tony Royce. Was she one of the girlfriends who’d been jilted when Tony swore undying loyalty to Marla this spring? I wondered.

For the lavish employee coffee break Eileen had me cater every Friday, I usually served an assortment of fresh fruit and baked goods. Eileen set aside an hour when she was available to talk to her employees during this time about any problems they were having. I was always surprised by how many problems could be recounted, and how much food could be consumed, in sixty minutes. This Friday I’d decided on fresh Strawberry-Pineapple-Kiwi Skewers, Scones with Lemon Curd, Banana-Pecan Muffins, and Almond-Poppy Seed Muffins. At the end of the computer menu, Tom had typed me a note: Why don’t you treat the bank employees to my Sour Cream Cherry Coffee Cake? Love you, T. His recipe followed the note. Honestly, this guy.

Sour Cream Cherry

Coffee Cake

ź pound (1 stick) unsalted butter

1 cup granulated sugar

2 large eggs

1 cup fat-free sour cream

2 cups all-purpose flour (High : altitude: add 2 tablespoons)

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

ź teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 tablespoon finely chopped lemon zest

˝ cup best quality cherry preserves

Preheat oven to 350°. Butter 2 8-inch-square cake pans. In a large mixer bowl, beat butter with sugar until well combined. Add eggs one at a time and beat well. Add sour cream and mix thoroughly. In a small bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture. Batter will be stiff. Stir in the vanilla, zest, and cherry preserves. Spread batter in pans.

Bake 20 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Makes 2 cakes.

Banana-Pecan Muffins

4 ˝ cups all-purpose flour

1 ž cups sugar

5 teaspoons baking powder (High altitude: 4 ˝ teaspoons)

1 ž teaspoons salt

1 ž cups mashed ripe banana

ź cup canola oil

2 large eggs

1 1/3 cups nonfat milk

1 ž cups pecan halves (do not chop)

Preheat the oven to 350°. Line 2 12-cup muffin tins with paper liners. In a large bowl, mix together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Set aside. In another large bowl, mix together the banana, canola oil, and eggs. Gradually add dry ingredients to banana mixture, alternating with the milk, adding dry ingredients last. Stir in the nuts.

Measure out batter evenly into lined muffin cups, f1l1ing cups 7/8 full. Bake 25 minutes, until muffins are puffed and golden brown.

Check with toothpick for doneness. Serve warm, or cool muffins on racks. Freeze for longer storage.

Makes 2 dozen.

Note: Muffins are about fifteen percent fat; to make them even lower in fat, omit the pecans.

I beat butter with sugar and put in a call to the sheriff’s department. Once again, Tom wasn’t at his desk. I said to his voice mail, “This is your wife, who’s making your scrumptious coffee cake. How about a date? This weekend?”

I hung up and smoothly blended cool, fat-free sour cream into the golden batter, then stirred in a spill of inky cherry preserves. The mixture was buttery-rich and fragrant with lemon and vanilla, and it occurred to me that I could eat the batter without even cooking it. I rid myself of such a devilish idea, slid the pan into the oven, and phoned Elk Park Prep.

“Yeah, this is Elk Park Prep, we’re closed now,” said Macguire’s voice.

“Macguire? Is that you or a recording?”

“Hi, Goldy, yeah, you’re speaking to me live. I don’t like answering the phone here.” He sighed extravagantly. “But… I guess even a private eye has to do his own phone work.”

I let this pass. “I just wanted to let you know I can do the bank gig this morning myself, and then I’m doing that doggone taste-test at Sam’s Soups, for Tony Royce, before he and Marla go on their fishing trip. I just didn’t know what your plans were –”

“Oh, I have lots of plans. But don’t you even want to know what I’ve turned up? In my investigations?” Before I could answer, he rushed on with: “Victoria Lear was starting paperwork for the Securities and Exchange Commission, stuff you have to do before you have an initial public offering of stock. They call that an IPO. You see, for the Eurydice Mine, the three and a half million Prospect raised was called a private placement. Thirty-five investors had put up a hundred thou each. Over the next year, the Prospect partners were going to hire a mining company to bring the mine into production, at the same time they worked on the IPO. But the SEC demands all kinds of stuff for an lPO, and that’s where Victoria hit a snag. Right before she croaked. Anyway, that’s all Bitsy could get out of the secretary, who hasn’t worked there very long. The secretary even said that Mr. Lipscomb had come in and taken all of Victoria’s files on the Eurydice Mine out of her office right after the accident.”

“Good Lord.”

“Hey, do I do my job, or what? The secretary got nervous talking about Lear there in the office. She said she and Bitsy should go out for lunch. Should I tell Bitsy to keep poking around? Go have lunch with this woman?”

Jake began barking furiously at the garbage man, even though he was at least six houses away. I told Macguire yes, he was fabulous and yes, Bitsy should go out for lunch with Lear’s secretary, and continue to poke around as much as possible without arousing suspicion. I signed off and called Jake inside. As the hound trotted toward me with a distinctly guilty air, I hugged myself against the chill wind and considered. So Victoria Lear was working on assembling paperwork for the SEC. Not that that was related to her death, but one had to wonder. What kind of paperwork was required for an IPO? I settled Jake in Arch’s room, where he no doubt jumped on the bed the instant I closed the door, then returned to the kitchen to finish the cooking for the bank affair. For the muffins, I whirled blackened bananas in my blender until they were dense and smooth, measured whole pecan halves into the flour mixture, and began to spoon the thick batter into paper cups.

The fragrant hot cherry cake emerged from my oven puffed, golden brown, and speckled with the dark berries. I slipped the tin of banana muffins in, closed the oven door, and took two dozen poppy seed muffins out of the freezer. Then I sliced and skewered the fruit, made a batch of Scottish scones on Tom’s oversize griddle, and donned a fresh chef’s jacket. Within forty-five minutes I had the fruit, muffins, scones, and cake packed, and I headed purposefully toward the bank.

“Oh, Goldy!” cried Eileen with her usual melodrama when I carried my lusciously scented goodies past her office. She jumped up to greet me. Eileen engaged in an aerobic and muscle-conditioning program that would put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame. She also visited with bank clients while working with big free weights; she claimed to be a living symbol of the bank’s strength. Whatever works. “I’m so glad you’re here’” she exclaimed. Her blue eyes shone beneath black lashes, and her long black hair was tightly woven in a French braid. She wore a pink silk shirt that slid flatteringly over her sinewy shoulders. A short black skirt hugged powerful hips. I didn’t know how strong the bank was, but I’d lay money on Eileen. “We’re in some kind of mess, I can tell you that,” she continued. “Thanks in no small part to Prospect Financial Partners. Creeps!”

“Well, let’s hear all about it,” I said as we headed into the empty conference room. I uncovered the first tray and offered it to her. “Have something to eat. Food heals all messes.”

Eileen plucked a banana muffin from the platter. “Lowfat?”

I nodded. “Even lower if you don’t count the pecans”

She shrugged and bit greedily into the muffin. “Mm-mm, rum. First thing I’ve had to eat today.”

“What’s the problem with Prospect Financial Partners?” I asked casually. “They don’t use Bank of Aspen Meadow, do they?”

“No, but our merger with First of the Rockies becomes final today. A whole bunch of our account numbers are being changed to avoid duplication. Customers who didn’t order checks are coming in totally irate. Not to mention the confusion with the doggone ATM cards. And of course I’m on the phone every other minute about this Lipscomb disappearance.” She put the muffin down and looked wistfully out the window. “I knew Dottie Quentin, the teller Albert Lipscomb ran off with. She’s probably on her way to Cozumel right now.” She sighed and nibbled more muffin. “Dottie was looking for a guy like Albert. She even had a copy of that infernal book, How to Meet and, Marry a Millionaire. In this case, he’s worth a tad more than a million,” she concluded darkly.

“I know, I heard,” I said sympathetically. “A three-and-a-half millionaire. Does the bank stand to lose money?”

“Oh, you heard about the amount. It’s supposed to be so hush-hush. No, the bank didn’t do anything wrong. We followed standard procedures. How were we to know the guy was stealing money? Besides, Prospect had the cash in the account, for a change. But I am worried about Dottie.” To console herself she sliced a thick wedge of coffee cake.

Prospect had the money, for a change? Hmm. Two employees came in and started to moan to Eileen about the new ATM cards; I busied myself slicing the rest of the cherry cake.

When the employees left and Eileen again assumed a morose expression, I ventured over with the muffin tray. “How old was that bank teller-did you say her name was Dottie Quentin?”

“Twenty-four. Dottie was my protégé during an exchange program between the branches. That dumb girl, I swear. I just wish I could talk to her.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Albert wasn’t that attractive, and he certainly didn’t impress me as the kind of guy who could make love to you with words. Did he impress you that way?”

“Oh, no.” She may have been in the middle of a bank merger crisis, and her protégé may have run off with a rich embezzler, but Eileen’s dark-lashed blue eyes, which she tried to keep downcast, gleamed with triumph. Maybe she wasn’t such a good actress after all.

“There’s nobody here,” I ventured, always one to take advantage of an opportunity for further sleuthing. “Want to sit down and visit for a little bit?” She nodded, and I poured two cups of coffee. “What I wonder,” I said carefully, “is why he did it. Lipscomb, I mean. Three and a half million shouldn’t be that much to a big money guy, should it?”

“It is if it’s all you’ve got in the account,” Eileen replied slyly. “Besides, maybe Albert wasn’t motivated so much by money. Maybe what he really wanted was to get back at Tony Royce for something.”

“Revenge? But get back at him for what?” I asked innocently.

She shrugged. “What few people know is that that mine was Tony’s baby as much as it was Albert’s. Albert usually analyzed their investments, while Tony brought in the clients. That’s how they cleaned up on Medigen. But Albert inherited the mine, so he was the official promoter looking for cash investors. Tony was desperate to analyze his own project. He told me so himself First he was going to score with Albert’s mine, then he’d move on to regional restaurants.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But first, Prospect would have to prove Eurydice still had gold; second, go public with their little enterprise; and third, make a bundle. Maybe things went sour. Maybe Albert decided to clean out their partnership account and leave Tony…” – she smiled – “high and dry.”

“But… what could possibly have gone sour, Eileen? I mean, Marla just lost her temper over something she didn’t understand in the assay report. My understanding is that you do lots and lots of assays to be sure a mine has gold or silver or whatever it is you’re looking for. Surely one bad assay wouldn’t be enough to ruin the whole project?”

She shrugged again. “Who knows? Because they’re not going to be doing any more exploration up there for a while. Not without money. Albert Lipscomb certainly saw to that,” she added maliciously.

I smiled at her and sipped coffee. “Clearly that doesn’t cause you any pain. You must not be a Prospect client.”

“I would never invest in one of their ventures.” Her voice had turned back to vinegar. “God forbid.”

“How come?”

Three employees appeared at the door. “It’s not something I can talk about,” Eileen replied curtly, and moved off to greet her workers. I got to my feet and offered fruit, coffee, and baked goods to the new arrivals. They dug in happily. When they left twenty minutes later, fed and content, Eileen lingered to pour herself some more coffee. She still looked hungry for conversation, so this time I decided to try a new tack.

“You know what I wonder about,” I said conspiratorially, “is how, in this day and age of bank security, a guy like Albert Lipscomb could talk his way into a big wad of cash and a compliant teller.”

Eileen glanced nervously at the conference door, blew on her coffee, and gestured with the muffin she held in her hand. “Oh, we know that part. Lipscomb went into the downtown branch of First of the Rockies Monday morning, June the seventh. He had a big check written out to himself, three and a half mil. He wanted cash. What did they teach him about banking in business school, I’d like to know? You can’t expect to get same-day service with that size transaction. So the teller – my idiot friend Dottie – said, ‘You have to order that kind of cash, we can’t get it for you right away.’ She alerted the officer, but the officer was drowning in this merger. So the officer told her, ‘Order the cash, and convince the guy to come back tomorrow for it.’ The officer told Dottie he’d join her in a minute to do the Large Currency Transaction Report. Required by the federal government, thank you very much, because of all the drug traffic,” she said to forestall my question. She took a big bite of muffin, spilling crumbs over the conference table. She didn’t seem to notice them. “Anytime you’re doing cash over ten thousand deposited or withdrawn, you have to fill out a Large Currency Transaction Report.”

I dumped my cold coffee and poured myself a new cup. “And what did Albert say to all this? I mean, it sounds as if he expected to leave that day with a couple of briefcases full of cash.”

“Apparently he had all the right identification for the Transaction Report.” Eileen sighed. “Albert left, then came back the next morning all smiles and charm, with a glitter in his eyes and a shine on his bald head. He loaded that three and a half mil into a large backpack, said thank you very much, and walked out. After the transaction, Dottie bubbled over telling all her co-workers how cute her rich customer was, and how nifty it was that he seemed so interested in her! She gushed about how she was going out to lunch with him. Which she did. And didn’t come back. Wednesday morning, Tony Royce called the bank about overdraft protection for some large checks to his mine exploration people. You’d better believe the salami hit the fan. There wasn’t enough money in the account to pay the exploration people, forget overdraft. Royce screamed and yelled and had a fit. He would never cosign on a withdrawal of that amount! Albert Lipscomb must have forged his signature on that check! Tony swore to decapitate the bank manager! And if one word of this got out, he said, he’d firebomb the damn bank!”

“What did the bank manager say?”

“Oh, my dear, that’s the problem. The bank manager says they need to question Dottie, but she’s drinking pina coladas in parts unknown. Now they’re saying Dottie might have been in on the deal with Albert from the beginning.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m just waiting for someone to call me in and say, ‘You trained this woman? What in heaven’s name did you teach her?’ “

I swirled my coffee, hardly able to conceal my curiosity. “I wonder what makes people think they were in on it together?”

Blithely, Eileen waved a hand, scattering still more crumbs. “Because she didn’t call Prospect that day to confirm the check was valid. Still, I do believe the conspiracy theory is a rumor perpetuated by the bank so the teller won’t look quite so stupid. People will excuse crime before they dream of acquitting imbecility. My tellers, of course, are all spooked. They’re playing Mat would you do with a rich stranger until I am sick to death of it.” She frowned. Then she finished off the muffin.

“I wonder if Tony had insurance,” I said idly.

“For that type of account? No way. I mean, he’d be insured up to a hundred thousand if the bank collapsed, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about loss of cash, period. Maybe forgery. Serves Prospect Financial right, I say.”

Once again I found myself wondering about the precise origin of Eileen’s bitterness. Was she so triumphant because Prospect had lost the private placement money? Or because Tony had jilted her? We were interrupted by the arrival of the second gaggle of excited employees. I picked up our coffee cups while Eileen chatted with her people. After a few minutes, she wandered back to me to say she had to check her messages. I asked if she’d return to clarify Friday’s upcoming assignment. Of course, I didn’t give a hoot about next week’s gig; I wanted to know what else she knew about Albert and the missing millions. But as I served coffee and delicacies to first the tellers, then the loan officers, I became intrigued with their conversations.

Nobody ever thinks a caterer is listening. And you don’t mean to be eavesdropping, you’re just the invisible servant who hears people talk.

-Well, I’d go out to lunch with a stranger if he’d picked up three and a half million in cash. Even if he did go to the Citadel.

-Not me! Don’t forget, she refused to give him the cash the first day, and you know they keep lots more than that in the downtown branch.

-Maybe he was pissed off

-Maybe he was asking her how he could get his three and a half million without his partner knowing.

While I was cleaning up, Eileen came back in. She looked even more harried than she had when I arrived. “They’re going to have a big meeting in an hour about this missing-Lipscomb-and-Dottie predicament. Big meeting means long meeting, and I’m starving just thinking about it. Would you fix me a plate?” When I nodded, she went on: “The regional managers from all over are getting antsy for an internal investigation. And damage control is out of the question now. So many people know how much money was taken, it’s just a matter of time before investors start trying to bail out of Prospect, and the whole enterprise goes belly-up.” I expected her to frown again, but she snickered.

I handed her the covered plate. “Sounds as if you’re not too brokenhearted.”

Her reply was defiant. “Well, I’m not.” She paused, wormed her fingers under the wrapping of the plate, and pulled out a piece of cherry cake. She bit into it and made mm-mm noises.

I said, “You’re not brokenhearted because Tony had already broken your heart, maybe?”

She shrugged “Tony and I dated, yes. Off and on. He always acted as if he owned three-fourths of Denver. Plus, he seemed to know everybody. And 1 wanted to get to know everybody.” She finished her cake, licked her fingers, and put down the dish. Then she pulled a mirror out of her handbag, looked at herself; grimaced, and pulled out a silver lipstick container.

“You do know everybody,” I observed.

“Not in the Denver business community I don’t. Albert and Tony and I were in a network, very professional, called WorkNet. Costs a mint, as in a thousand a year to belong. But it’s for business leads. You scratch my back, et cetera. Very well organized. Very productive. You should join.”

“A thousand a year for business leads? They’d have to be pretty incredible leads.”

“But Goldy, they are. Say one guy in WorkNet does commercial leases. He knows months before anybody else that a company is coming into town. Now, the company coming in needs everything from telecommunications to decorating to a two-million-dollar pad for their CEO. So in WorkNet, we’ll have, of course, decorators, telecommunications executives, real estate agents, even caterers. The deal is that we all help each other. Say the real estate agent who sells the CEO the mansion finds out that the CEO’s daughter is getting married next summer. Our agent comments, ‘I know this great caterer, absolutely the perfect person to do your daughter’s reception.’ And of course, it’s going to be a twenty-five-thousand-dollar gig.”

“Tony and Albert were in WorkNet?”

“Oh, Tony and Albert were in it to the max, darling. This was about five years ago,” she said dreamily. “I simply loved going to those meetings with those guys. They were looking for rich investors right and left, and 1 basked in all that power, I must say. They wanted me to find wealthy people for them. You’re Marla’s friend. Doesn’t Tony do that with you?”

I nodded. “He does, all the time. He used to ask if I catered for any rich widows. Last month he wanted to know if I knew any rich doctors.”

Eileen reached back under the plastic wrapping to pull out another muffin. “Oh, jeez. Does he know your history? I mean, about your ex? I hope you told him off.”

“No,” I replied matter-of-factly, “I told him I tried to stay away from rich doctors as much as possible. So he asked me if I knew any rich dentists. I said no. Lawyers? Pilots? Plumbers? He said rich folks needed him.”

“Did you help him?” I smiled broadly. “I gave him a few names, but I’m not sure anybody had the kind of net worth he was looking for.”

Eileen took another bite of muffin and nodded appreciatively. “I didn’t bring Albert or Tony anybody, either. And no alarm bells went off when they wanted to invest my entire divorce settlement of two hundred thousand dollars. Make you a million in two years, they promised. I gave them forty thousand.” She paused. “Tell me, as a food person, would you have invested your divorce settlement in goats?”

“What? Goats? As in farm animals?”

She licked her pinky. “As in farm animals. Tony and Albert didn’t get caught, so maybe it was a genuine deal. Anyway, they said they only needed about five hundred thousand to get started. After they took my forty thou, they went out to meet people in churches. I’ll bet you Tony and Albert spent my money on Sunday clothes. Those guys went to more churches, I swear, they were like apostles of the ecumenical movement. The two of them convinced numerous devout folks that the climate in Morrison, Colorado, was the same as that of Kashmir, Pakistan. That’s where they raise the goats that provide the hair for cashmere yarn, in case you’re interested. Mountainous region, sound familiar?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, I haven’t gotten to the food part.” She relipsticked her mouth and opened her eyes wide. “Goat cheese. Or che’vre, if you prefer. The Morrison cashmere goats were going to provide goat cheese and yarn. A double-barreled investment. Plus Albert said slaughtered goats would go to feed Denver’s hungry, and the skins would be sold to raise money to build shelters for the homeless. That’s how they got the church people. As I recall,” she stared at the ceiling, “they raised about four hundred thousand dollars on that one. Without so much as a single strand of goat hair or plate of cheese to show for it.”

“So what happened?”

“Oh my dear, so painful. The two of them actually bought some land, bought a few goats, brought investors out and had them try on cashmere sweaters, taste a little Montrachet. But the samples were from a delicatessen, and the cashmere sweaters were from Scotland. Their goats all died. They unloaded the land. The investors, including yours truly, got back less than ten cents on the dollar.”

No wonder she was so pleased with Prospect’s recent run of disastrous luck. “Sounds like maybe it was just a bad investment,” I murmured.

She gave me an incredulous look. “I looked up the deed for that land this year, although I wasn’t smart enough to do it back then. Prospect doubled its money on it. Maybe they were sincere, maybe it was all a mistake, who was I to judge? Either way, this winter, I alerted the state consumer fraud people.”

I held my breath. “What did they find?”

“Nothing. They said there was a statute of limitations problem and their staff had just been cut back to the bone. Plus, I was the only one who’d made any noise. I straightened out the last of the fruit skewers and tried to think what to ask next. “Did you keep… seeing Tony during that time?”

“What was I supposed to do when all his damn goats were dying? I’d never seen a man so sad. He chalked it up as a loss, and he and Albert quietly got out of the goat business. I didn’t get suspicious until the following year, when the two of them were yakking away in WorkNet about selling ostrich eggs to all the would-be ostrich farmers. One day, I got up my courage and cornered Albert. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he and his partner didn’t get out of animal husbandry, I’d write up the goat fiasco for the WorkNet newsletter. Albert told Tony I was upset. Tony said, Oh, sweetheart, can’t we go out for dinner? So I went, but I wouldn’t give them a dime for ostriches. Now what I don’t know is when the two of them started investing in regional companies. Prospect Financial Partners did great when Medigen went public. And might have done great with mining gold, who knows?”

“Sheesh. But,” and I tried to sound thoughtful, “didn’t you start dating Tony again? As in this year?”

Her cheeks colored. “A couple of times, why? Why shouldn’t I try to stay friends with Tony? He’s a part of the business community, whether I like it or not.”

“I’m just saying it doesn’t sound as if you’re friends.”

“Well, I … I mean I guess Marla is the jealous type, or something.” She pressed the plastic wrap tightly over her plate. “Tony and I haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“You saw him at the mine party, didn’t you? Of course, I was busy, but I thought I saw you talking to Albert – “

Eileen glanced out the window, and I had the sudden feeling that she didn’t wish to discuss that particular conversation. “Just casual, I assure you, Goldy. Trying to bury the hatchet. I’m not an investor in the mine – they just invited me for. : . social reasons, I think.” She turned her gaze from the window and winked at me. The wicked gleam was back in her eyes. “I certainly hope Marla didn’t loan either of them any money. I’d never entrust either of those guys with my money again. Never. But listen, I have to go. You can just call me about next week.”

I felt a headache looming, and groaned. “Okay. But… what worries me is that I think Marla wants to make the relationship with Tony permanent. I mean, they have tiffs, but –”

“Well, maybe she’ll reconsider now that Tony’s three and a half mil lighter. I promise, Goldy. Those Prospect Financial guys are bad karma. I never take a bite of goat cheese without thinking of them.”

10

I raced home to prepare a dish for Marla and Tony’s evening meals out on the range. Or rather, by the trout-swollen brook. In the spirit of the taste testing I’d be doing later, and also because it could be such a comfort in rainy weather, I decided on homemade chicken soup. I chopped mountains of leeks, onions, carrots, and celery, then gently stirred them into a golden pool of olive oil along with the chicken breasts. If I hadn’t been making the soup for cardiac patient Marla, of course, I would have used unsalted butter instead of oil. Small sacrifice.

Rainy Season Chicken Soup

2 dried porcini mushrooms

2 tablespoons butter

2 leeks, white part only, split, rinsed, and diced

1 medium-size carrot, diced

1 medium-size onion, diced

1 large celery rib, diced

2 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves

2 tablespoons all purpose flour

2 tablespoons dry white wine 4 cups chicken stock, divided (preferably the homemade lowfat chicken stock made from the recipe in Killer Pancake)

1 cup fat-free sour cream

1 cup fideo (fine-cut egg noodles) salt and pepper

Using a small pan, bring a cup of water to boiling and drop in the porcini mushrooms. Cook uncovered over medium-high heat for 10 minutes, then drain the mushrooms, pat them dry, and slice thinly. Set aside. In a large sauté pan, melt the butter over low heat. Put in the leeks, carrot, onion, celery, and chicken, stir gently, and cover to cook over low heat for 5 minutes. Take off the cover, stir the vegetables, turn the chicken, and check for doneness. (The chicken should be about half done.) Cover and cook another 5 minutes, or until chicken is just done – not overdone. Remove the chicken from the pan and set aside to cool. Sprinkle the flour over the melted butter, vegetables, and pan juices, and stir to cook over low heat for 2 minutes. Slowly add the white wine and 2 cups of the chicken broth. Stir and cook until bubbly and thickened. Add the sour cream very slowly, and allow to cook gently while you slice the chicken into thin, bite-size pieces.

In a large frying pan, bring the remaining 2 cups of stock to boiling, and add fideo. Cook 4 minutes, or until almost done. Do not drain. Slowly add the noodle mixture to the hot vegetables and sour cream mixture. Add the chicken and the mushrooms and bring back to boiling. Serve immediately.

Serves 4.

I removed the chicken breasts when they were tender and milky white, then whisked in flour, white wine, and lowfat chicken broth. The homey scent of cooked vegetables wafted upward. My mind churned. As I sliced the chicken, I wondered how much of Tony’s character Marla really knew. Or wanted to know. But then again, as a former girlfriend, especially one who’d been jilted, Eileen Tobey was not the most reliable of sources. And besides, my own Tom had remembered Albert in connection with the goats and goat cheese, not Tony and Albert together. Maybe Eileen was indulging in some reputation-destroying back-stabbing, by exchanging the names and the players.

When the soup had cooled, I packed it into zipped plastic bags and wedged frozen ice packs between the bags in a large cardboard box. I also loaded in fruit, granola, yogurt, raw vegetables, nonfat sour cream dip, and homemade bread. As I revved up the van, I wondered if l should be the one to confront Tony about the goat story. Then again, Eileen had left out a few significant facts in her tale, including that she’d resumed dating Tony several years after the goat swindle. Nor, she said, had she alerted the consumer fraud people until after she and Tony broke up this year. Maybe Albert was the real swindler; that certainly seemed to be in line with the way he was acting now. No matter what, I thought as I pulled up in front of Sam’s Soups, I doubted this afternoon’s scheduled taste-testing would give me an opportunity for a business-oriented heart-to-heart with Tony.

“Here you are, finally,” he said, as he guided me through the tables by the bank of windows facing Aspen Meadow Lake. The bright navy-and-white interior of Sam’s Soups was meant to conjure up culinary memories of New England, I guessed, as I watched waiters and waitresses clad in sailor’s outfits zip between tables. A long fisherman’s net hung along one wall, while another festooned the ceiling. Framed posters depicting cross sections of seashells graced the other wall. And what did I hear? I moved close to a wall-mounted speaker. Yes: It was the piped-in sound of seagulls. Tony grinned proudly as I took all this in. He was his usual dapper self: white monogrammed shirt, navy pants, mustache freshly clipped, hair blown dry into a soft wave. “We’ve been waiting for you, Goldy. Sam’s chef has prepared a whole smorgasbord of soups just for you.”

I glanced around the crowded restaurant. As the only caterer in a small town, I’d learned that it’s not a good idea to frequent the local eateries. Then all the people who see you say, “Why do you suppose she’s eating here? Think it’s better than her own stuff? Is she here to spy? Or to be critical?” Experience made me doubt Sam Perdue would join us for the taste-test. Why submit your own wares for judgment from a rival? And how could I honestly evaluate his soups in his presence? Alas, he waved at Tony and me from his seat next to Marla. They were at the table in the middle of the restaurant that I guessed was our destination. At least Sam looked more composed than he had at the Prospect office four days ago. His baby-fine blond hair was neatly combed over his bald spot. His slight frame made him look much younger than the thirty-two years of age someone had once told me he was. If I criticized his food, I’d feel as if I were hurting a child. My heart sank.

Edna Hardcastle fluttered up to the table just as I was sitting down next to Marla, who greeted me with a grateful smile. “Oh, you’re here, you’re here,” Edna gushed. She wore a two-piece beige herringbone knit. Her henna hair was swirled up in an intricate twist. “Now don’t worry about a thing, Goldy,” she admonished before I could say a word. “I know you’re probably thinking, Oh, what can I do? I’m just a local person. In fact, we’re all putting a great deal of faith in you, dear, and much is riding on your opinion. Of course, if we had only invested in food from the beginning …” Her voice trailed off “But never mind, here you are, and we’re all going to be so interested in your opinion, it’ll give us a chance to get in on the ground floor… .”

As she blathered on, Tony sidled over to his seat and .gestured for me to pick up a spoon and dig into one of the blue porcelain bowls in the center of the table. Helpful sticky notes on the platter containing the soup bowls said: Terrapin Tom’s Tomato, Moby Dick’s Chicken, Cocoa Beach Chocolate, Cranky Crab, Big Cheese Chowder. Hold on. Cocoa Beach Chocolate soup? I didn’t think I could get even the chocoholic General Farquhar to sample that. Mrs. Hardcastle was chattering about the cook she’d had in Wisconsin. You could just get the best cheese there, and had Tony ever tasted upstate cheddar?

Sam murmured placating noises to Mrs. Hardcastle, while Marla and Tony talked about soups they’d tasted at French restaurants. I suddenly recalled the late Victoria Lear, who had not liked Sam’s Soups, despite the cute names. I should have been smiling and paying attention to Mrs. Hardcastle, or getting off a gentle barb that the only cheese Tony knew was from goats, but unfortunately, what went through my mind as I contemplated the blue bowl was, You can die doing a taste test. I scooped up a spoonful of Cranky Crab soup.

Flaunting risk, I lifted the spoon toward my lips. Suddenly all eyes in the restaurant seemed focused on my open mouth. I hesitated. Images of medieval poison tasters came to mind. One bite, and it might be my last.

“For crying out loud, Goldy,” Marla admonished as the spoon holding the crab mixture trembled in my fingers. She waggled her head in reproof “When I taste-test, it’s fun. It’s just seafood. Don’t think soup.

Think casserole. It’s not going to kill you.” Could Marla possibly still want to invest in a chain of soup-only restaurants, after all that had been happening with Prospect Financial? Apparently so. But not until I gave a thumbs-up to the Cranky Crab concoction. I noticed she wasn’t having any soup-casserole, however. Trying to be careful about her diet. Mm-hmm.

“Let Goldy try the stuff will you?” Tony Royce advised as he shifted in his chair and glanced around at the other tables. “We have to make things appear normal,” he added. He sounded nervous. Normal, his favorite word. “We’re carrying on with business as usual. We’re tasting. We’re investing. Big crowd here, likes soup. Okay, let’s go, Goldy. Eat.”

There was no soup bowl in front of Tony, either, I noticed. Not a good sign. Sam Perdue ran his fingers through his thin blond hair. His eyes crinkled with anxiety.

Over my shoulder, Mrs. Hardcastle gabbed without a break. “… This is no ordinary soup, you know. Sam’s is about to expand from its Denver and Aspen Meadow locations because this is really a singular creation, don’t you think so, Tony?”

Tony waved his hands expansively. “They use all the freshest ingredients. All the restaurant critics are raving about this… what, Mrs. Hardcastle?”

“Light-tasting magic,” she responded rapturously, with a hand on her throat. “Oh, how I do wish that Victoria had felt… oh, but never mind. And that awful Albert! Oh, Tony, Tony, I knew he duped you back with that goat cheese – “

I faltered and set the spoon down on the platter. “Maybe I should go back to my table,” Mrs. Hardcastle murmured.

“Perhaps that really would be best,” said Marla, with a frosty smile.

I gazed down into the soup bowl. Across the table, Sam Perdue squirmed in his chair.

“Listen, Goldy,” Tony soothed. “This could be a marvelous opportunity for you. We could bring this place public and make a killing. They’ve got a recurring revenue base, which means people come back for the experience of eating soup here. Plus people order breads, salads, and cookies. Comfort on a grand scale. The concept has done extremely well in other locations, except Wyoming. My exit interviews at Sam’s in Denver were fantastic. Am I making sense to you?”

I looked at him and said evenly, “Tony, I would be a much more amenable taster if you would not treat me like a complete idiot.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” he said, with a huge phony smile beneath his manicured mustache. “Okay, listen. Sam’s has plans for new restaurants in more cosmopolitan markets – Colorado Springs and Boulder. You know what an initial public offering is?” He regarded me patiently.

“Why don’t you just give me a dunce cap, Tony?” Marla gargled with laughter.

But Tony, undaunted, continued sharing his financial expertise. “The company is expanding management to try new markets. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

Sam, who appeared increasingly catatonic, nodded apprehensively.

Tony went on: “After opening locations in the Springs and Boulder, Sam wants to look northward, open a place in Fort Collins, but skip over Wyoming altogether. Try his luck selling soups in Montana-Missoula first, then Bozeman. I want to tell you, Goldy, I expect this is going to make us all rich.”

Or at least recoup a million or two, I reflected. I picked up the spoon, with its load of Cranky Crab. I sniffed it; the aroma was bland-like a canned clam chowder. I assumed a studious expression. Tony and Marla exchanged an eager glance and leaned forward. Would I pronounce the Cranky indescribable? Luscious? One of a kind? Fortunately, the chef was sequestered in the kitchen. One of the things Mrs. Hardcastle had been at pains to inform me was that the poor chef couldn’t stand the tension. Reportedly, he was anxious to learn my findings. I rolled the soup over my tongue. Sam, Tony, and Marla cocked their heads. What would .I say? Its texture is divine! Its taste unequalled! I’ll take two—no—three bowls full!

“Hmm,” I said. You guys are in serious trouble.

Outside of Sam’s, another relentless rain had swept down upon us. Raindrops pelted Aspen Meadow Lake. I swallowed the tasteless, thin concoction, tried to think of how to phrase my assessment, and looked out at the inlet abutting the lake. A group of hardy members of the Audubon Society stood in the downpour peering through their binoculars. According to the Mountain Journal, rotten weather or no, the birders were making daily walks around the lake in hopes of a second sighting of a long-billed curlew.

Sam cleared his throat with a frightened squeak and twisted in his modified Adirondack-style chair. Tony consulted his sculptured nails, gnawed his bottom lip, brushed more imaginary dust off his white shirt, then shot me another questioning look. Clearly, Marla hadn’t been as persnickety a taste-tester as I was turning out to be.

“Goldy?” said Tony. “I like to involve the common folk. A little nine-year-old kid next door told me to buy Clearly Canadian. I did, and made a mint on flavored water. Got another tip from Zane Smythe. Know who he is?”

I nodded. Zane is a local fisherman who teaches fly tying and writes articles on fishing for the Mountain Journal.

“Zane tipped me onto Timberland. I’ve done real well going long on backpacks and water.” Tony lowered his voice. “Things aren’t going so great now, as you know. And in addition to everything else, my taste buds are shot.”

Sam murmured, “Yours and everyone else’s in that firm.” They were the first words he’d spoken.

Marla put a friendly hand on Tony’s elbow. “Honey, if I’d put jalapeno jelly on English muffins every morning for the last ten years, my taste buds would be gone, too. It’s one of the laws of food.”

Tony removed Marla’s hand from his elbow. “Will you stop?” Now he gave me the full benefit of his dark brown eyes. “I need you to be honest, Goldy. If you approve of Sam’s offerings, I’ll round up the cash so he can open two more locations.” He paused. “Actually, you need to do more than approve… .”

Marla flapped a hand in my direction. “You need to love it, Goldy. You need to say it’s going to be the next nationwide rage. Like Mrs. Field’s, right, Tone?” Tony shrugged. “Like Starbucks,” she whispered.

I didn’t dare look at Sam. Outside, rain fell. The birders gingerly trod through the soggy wetlands. I lifted the spoon and took another bite. No better. I tried the Big Cheese Chowder; it was lumpy and if there was cheddar in the soup, it was barely discernible. I moved on to Terrapin Tom’s Tomato. My own homemade tomato soup boasts the rich, sweet smell of fresh tomatoes, combined with a thick, smooth texture. Sam’s tomato soup was thin and indeterminately spicy. Well, I had my integrity. I’d finally tasted, and I’d found the soups wanting. I felt Tony’s glare but said nothing. And Marla’s best friend or no, I wasn’t going to taste the chocolate.

I glanced back toward the kitchen, but the chef was nowhere in sight. At this very moment he might be concentrating on his commercial-sized Hobart as it beat ponds of cream sauce with broth into soups that he fervently hoped would make him a multimillionaire. Maybe he believed money would bail him out of being stuck in the kitchen. I doubted both.

Tony impatiently spread his fingers on the rim of the empty dish in front of him. “Look, Goldy. Just tell me. Everybody says these soups are great. Gonna be the next craze. Lowfat, rib-sticking, but…” He chewed the inside of his cheek to find the right word, then brightened. “Lowfat, rib-sticking, but delish. There’ve been articles in local papers. Pretty soon all kinds of venture capital folks will be itching to get in here. Once this thing takes off: it’ll be too late. I want to get in on the ground floor. Know what I mean? Understand? Comprende?”

“I guess I don’t,” I said honestly.

Sam Perdue pressed his thin lips together. His terrified expression had turned resentful.

“I may have missed Boston Chicken,” Tony continued insistently, as if I had not spoken. He picked up a three-pronged fork and tapped the table in time with his next words. “And I may have missed Outback Steakhouse. But I am not going to miss Sam’s Soups. So tell me. Tell me that these journalists are right.” He scrutinized my face, the dark mustache aquiver. I took another spoonful of the cheese chowder and closed my eyes. I rolled my tongue over the lukewarm melange of ingredients. There was a hint of cheese, yes, but the mixture was not smooth, creamy, or light, not to mention redolent of cheese, whether it was fine Swiss or sharp cheddar. Even I had a better recipe for cheese soup than this. I swallowed and sighed. Every muscle in Tony’s taut, expectant face rolled, tightened, and rolled again, like cables on a high-speed ski lift. Should I take another sip of the tomato, I wondered, smile, close my eyes, swallow? Venture a fourth bite? What happened if I frowned and delicately set the spoon aside? Would he really holler at me?

“Well – ” I began.

“She doesn’t like it,” Marla interrupted with a fluttering of bejeweled fingers. She put one chubby hand on Tony’s forearm. He jerked away. “Give it a rest, Tony. Come on.”

Sam Perdue, his face a mottled study of anger, scraped his chair back, stood, and silently marched away. Marla’s efforts to mollify Tony were unsuccessful. When he made one short, fierce shake of his head, she sent a hopeful gaze around the restaurant.

“I want to lose money,” she said brightly. “I know how to throwaway more than we’ve already allowed to slip past. Hey, Tony! All we have to do is invest in a restaurant producing food that Goldy thinks is garbage.”

“Damn it, Marla!” Tony snapped. Then he relented and rubbed her hand. “Don’t get in the middle of this, sweetie. If it’s no good, we’re not going to invest in it. Okay?”

I could practically hear her purr at his saccharine attentions. Fool! I wanted to shout, but did not. Tony sighed gustily and dipped a clean spoon into the chocolate soup. He didn’t look at me as he put the spoon loaded with dark stuff on my plate.

“Hey Tony, what am I, a kid?” I demanded. “Don’t you think I can feed myself?”

“No, you’re not a kid,” he said quietly, still not meeting my gaze. “In fact, I hear you’re the right-hand woman to the county’s number one investigator.”

“Yeah, too bad he doesn’t investigate soups, right?” I parried. I eyed the chocolate, which was dark and velvety-looking. When the Aztecs had named chocolate “food of the gods,” they’d been onto something. I didn’t want to imagine, much less experience, how Sam’s chef had wrecked it.

“Eat the damn soup, Goldy, and tell me if it’s any good. It’s the last one.” He scanned the restaurant again, and spoke confidingly. “Sam’s had a hard time with Prospect, and he’s ready to go to the newspapers with his tale of how cruel we’ve been to him. The last thing I want is more bad publicity, okay? Victoria didn’t like the soups, Albert got away with a bundle, and Sam’s going to hate the hell out of me if we veto his plans. I do want to try to help this guy expand, if I can.” He gestured at the chocolate soup. “Tell me if anything here has potential.” He exhaled, then spoke with clenched teeth. “I need a successful investment at this time, because of what’s going on at the firm.”

“You’re being a jerk, To-ny,” Marla singsonged, winking at some friends and holding up an index finger to indicate she’d be right over.

Tony’s voice was corrosive. “Oh, I’m a jerk? I thought you two saved the term jerk for your mutual ex-husband.” Marla tsked, rose, and flounced off She wriggled through some tables, poured herself some forbidden coffee, and carried it off to greet her buddies.

Tony smoothed his mustache with his index finger and gave me a blank look. “Eat your chocolate soup, Goldy,” he said coldly.

I watched Marla’s back as she sipped from her coffee cup and chatted with her acquaintances, women who from their expensive clothing looked as if they, too, like Marla, belonged to the nonworking segment of the populace. Maybe they were also signed up for the art appreciation adventure to Italy. The excursion was supposed to be all-female, but maybe the Botticelli and Bernini would be supplanted by marinara and men. Actually, that would have been good for Marla, I mused. Much as I worried about Marla’s health, I worried more about her social life. Not the country club variety, but the intense kind you have with guys. Guys like Tony. Tony who was now giving me the soup-sipping evil eye.

I took a dainty spoonful of the chocolate concoction. It was too thin. And too sweet. “No more,” I said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Tony cried. “Can’t you at least give me more information than that?” he demanded in a nasty tone I tried to think of as concerned. He wanted to hear sensory analysis, or at least reasons for culinary rejection, straight from the caterer’s mouth. “You realize we’re talking about a lot of money to be made here?” he added in a lower, patronizing voice.

Well. That did it. If the man wanted a bona fide taste assessment, the man was going to get one.

“They’re all boring. They lack creamy texture and depth of taste. They’re too thin. Worse, the seafood and cheese selections are not spicy enough for the American palate. They’re not terrible,” I said wistfully. “Just not… unusual. And I should tell you, Tony, good soups can be extraordinarily labor-intensive. Labor-intensive means lots of money. Plus, soup is volatile. Cook it too long, and it gets like library paste. Cook it too little and it tastes like puddle water.”

He exhaled loudly and put his head in his hands.

Outside the restaurant, the soaking wet Audubon group was breaking up. A tall fellow tentatively raised his head, spylike, and trained his binoculars on Sam’s. No long-billed curlew here, I wanted to call to him, just a few odd ducks. The man watched the restaurant just a moment too long to be credibly involved with the birders. I stared until he folded his body down next to a beat-up Subaru. Oh, Lord: Macguire. Trying to be an investigator. What did he think he was doing? Was he tailing somebody? And who? The teenager was going to give new meaning to the term loose cannon.

Tony caught Sam Perdue’s eye and gave him a sympathetic, sorrowful look. Sam lifted his chin and turned his back. He sure didn’t want to hear analysis of his soup samples from a local caterer.

“This was a mistake,” I said, and meant it. Poor Sam.

“Oh, well.” Tony was already on the rebound, just as he’d been after the scene at the mine party. Apparently things went badly in the venture capital world quite often. “You brought the food for our camping trip.”

“Yes, I did. It’s in the van.”

He smiled mischievously. “Marla says your husband is a big fisherman. Is he jealous of what we’re doing?”

“If you actually catch any trout, he’ll be jealous after the fact.”

Again Tony leaned over and addressed me in an oddly confiding tone. “Has he found my partner yet? Has he gotten any leads?”

“I wouldn’t know. Tom’s off the case.”

He wrinkled his brow and continued to whisper. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Shockley’s the captain, and as you undoubtedly know, his retirement funds are with Prospect. He wants his own people out looking for Albert Lipscomb.”

“But… but… I thought your husband was the best. That’s what Marla says. ‘Tom Schulz is the best.’” Tony’s face contorted with alarm. “Jesus. They’ll never find Albert if Schulz isn’t working the case. What’s the matter with that Shockley? Doesn’t he want to find Albert? What about my money?”

Taken aback, I couldn’t think of a word to say. This possibility had never occurred to me. Tony looked apprehensively in Marla’s direction and said: “Listen, Goldy, speaking of husbands, there’s something more important that I need to talk to you about.” He hesitated. “I’m going to ask Marla to marry me this weekend, when we’re up at Grizzly Creek. Think she’ll have me?”

My heart plummeted. I certainly hope not. “You’re going to ask her to marry you on a fishing trip? Why don’t you just go to the Brown Palace and skip the rod-and-reel routine? I think she’d be more likely to say yes. You’d certainly get less wet.”

“No, no, no,” he said desperately. “This is important, Goldy. I told Marla this fishing trip was going to be a big deal. She thinks we’re trying to catch enormous cutthroat trout. Being by the water is very romantic.” He snorted. “So,” he said as if he were discussing a merger he’d just read about in Forbes, “do you think she wants to get married or not?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully, but was prevented from saying more by Marla’s approach. I suddenly had a vision of myself standing up and screaming, Marla, get an ironclad prenuptial agreement! But of course, I didn’t.

“I’ll talk to you when we get back,” Tony whispered hastily. “Save the first weekend in August for us. You can cater the reception.”

I grunted and was stopped from saying Why, thank you, Your Highness, by Marla’s arrival.

“I see you all got your differences straightened out,” she said impatiently. “I just saw Nan and Liz and… uh-oh, there’s Sam!” she hissed. “Did you tell him you didn’t like the soups, Goldy? He certainly doesn’t look very happy.”

That was an understatement. The man looked ready to drown me in his precious soup.

“We need to go,” Tony said curtly. “We still have to pack up all the gear. Is your van locked, Goldy?”

“Come on, guys, I begged them, can’t you go fishing another weekend?”

Tony stared at the ceiling. Over the sound of seagull calls, he said, “We need to get moving. Is the food really in your van, or did you forget it?”

“I remembered the food, chill out. Oh, and speaking of which, refrigerate the” – I lowered my voice – “soup until you leave.” I directed my plea at Marla. “It’s raining. You’re going to get drenched even if it stops – “

“You don’t seem to know who you’re talking to.” Tony’s voice had gone from insulting back to its normal arrogance. “All my stuff is waterproof: Goldy. State-of-the-art. And we’ll get up there when all the other fishermen are too wimpy. We’ll catch a lot.”

“That I doubt,” said Marla with a perfumed shrug. “You won’t say that when I fix you my pan-fried trout,” chided Tony, as he helped her into her shiny white raincoat. “Maybe we won’t even need Goldy’s soup.”

As we left, Edna Hardcastle was condoling with Sam Perdue, who refused to acknowledge our departure.

Outside, Macguire was nowhere to be seen. I hoped, rather than believed, that he’d given up his investigative fantasies.

I turned to Marla. But she was making a joke with Tony, something about being smart like fish, something about schools. The old joke.

I didn’t say what was on my mind. Stay home, Marla, I wanted to beg, but I couldn’t say the words. She looked over, wanting me to share in her laughter. Again I tried to speak, but the warning remained in my throat, unspoken.

Don’t say yes.

11

It was another slow weekend with no bookings and intermittent rain. Friday and Saturday, I experimented with shrimp curry and grilled tuna with Japanese noodIes. After marination in lemon juice and crushed bay leaves, the tuna was delectable. But the curry was so hot even Jake turned his nose up at it. An unusually fierce, windy rainstorm late Saturday night took out our telephones as well as our electric power. We drove through thick fog to get to church, then decided to take Arch and Todd Druckman to a Rockies game, tickets courtesy of the Druckmans’ vacationing neighbors.

The Rockies were playing the Mets. By the eighth inning, the Rockies were ahead by one. In the top of the ninth, with two out and a runner on second, the Mets’ catcher hit a line drive down the left field line.

Ellis Burks backhanded the ball on the first bounce and flung it with such force to home that I thought Jayhawk Owens was going to spin a cartwheel when he reached for it. Owens managed to catch the ball, pivot, and tag the runner out to end the game. The crowd went wild.

The memory of that play flickered in my mind Monday morning, when an event came out of left field that-shocked me no less than if I’d tried to catch Burks’ throw with my bare hands.

The phone’s ringing pierced the silence when the clock’s digits glowed exactly 7:30. Apparently, both our electric power and telephone service had been restored. I figured that Tom had reset the clocks before he left. Arch, I was fairly sure, was still asleep. Since I didn’t have any bookings, I thought it must be my mother calling from New Jersey to do a postmortem on the game. She’s a big Mets fan.

It was not my mother. It was Macguire Perkins. He rasped and wheezed so badly into the receiver that at first I barely recognized his voice.

“Oh, Goldy, I’m so sorry. I’m in Lutheran Hospital. In Denver. I’ve got such bad news. I really screwed up.”

I threw off the sheets, shot up in bed, and dragged my mind from baseball to Macguire. Macguire in the hospital? “Macguire, what’s wrong?”

“I was tailing them. But I lost them. Marla and her boyfriend. Something happened. Somebody…somebody hit me over the head – ” he wheezed. ” – and I guess I struggled, but then the perp must have hit me again, because I just like, passed out or whatever.”

“Someone hit you? When? Where? Macguire, start over, please. Are you okay?”

“Out in the woods, near Grizzly Creek. It was at night. And there was that big storm, you know? When I came to, there was a ton of blood coming out of this gross cut on my scalp. I mean, the blood’s all over my shirt, pants, everything. It was nasty.” More wheezing. “I thought I was dying. I figured I’d been hit by a rock, or a rock slide, or jeez, I don’t know, because I can’t remember hearing anything. But sometimes you don’t, you know, remember hearing a rock slide. Your mind blanks it out. At least that’s what this guy at school told me.” His voice shredded into coughing. “Anyway, I tied my shirt around my scalp and tried to drive my car out, but the front tires were flat. I thought, that’s weird, how could they both be flat? And I couldn’t see any big rocks or boulders nearby, so I was like, totally confused. And scared. Even though there was nobody around and all I could hear was the rain.” There was murmuring in the background. “Yeah, okay,” I heard Macguire say. “I’ll be off in a minute.” He sighed, which led to more coughing. “That was the nurse. I had to have six stitches, and the covering of my skull is torn. I didn’t even know the skull had a covering. I mean, you know. Besides skin. And, of course, hair,” he added dutifully.

“Macguire, I’m so sorry… but why… why did you do this? What were you thinking?”

He sighed gustily, with the world-weary air of Sam Spade. “I know it’s dumb. But I was up at Albert Lipscomb’s house with you guys, and it was all so weird when he skipped. So I just thought if I followed Tony it would lead to Albert. I mean, eventually. Then I’d be the hero. I should have known better, I know. Don’t tell me, I already feel totally stupid.”

I was out of bed and pulling on a sweat suit, the phone tucked under my ear. “For heaven’s sake, Macguire, how did you get back to town? Couldn’t Marla and Tony help you? Did you call the police?”

“I couldn’t find Marla and Tony,” he whined helplessly, and I was painfully reminded of how young he was. “That’s what I called to tell you. After I came to, I went over to where I’d watched them fixing dinner. I had to wait for flashes of lightning to see anything. You wouldn’t believe how dark it was. And it was really raining – Anyway, I called, but they weren’t at the campsite any more. Marla’s car was there, that new Mercedes, all locked up. I don’t know where they went, I swear. But it was real dark, you know. The wind was blowing like crazy, it was raining so hard… . And it was really cold.”

He hacked again, then spoke to someone, probably the nurse. I prayed that he had some idea of where Tony and Marla were, some idea that they were okay.

“Did you ever see Marla and Tony? I mean after you were hit?”

“No, I’m telling you, I couldn’t find them. And I called and called. They must have left on foot, because they only had the one car up there. Goldy, it looked as if a bear or something had gone through their campsite, it was such a frigging – excuse me – mess. I stumbled back until I came to the dirt road, then I walked out to the state highway. A guy in a truck picked me up. He brought me here. And then I guess I like passed out again, or something, because my memory gets kind of blurry. Oh yeah, the guy in the truck said he would call the police. They operated on me, sewing up that cut, yesterday sometime. Gosh, I feel like hell. And the nurse says I have to get off the phone. I’m going to call the school secretary at home, in case my father phones and wonders where I am.”

“Oh, Macguire, you poor – “

“Don’t worry, I’m supposed to get out of here tomorrow. That’s a good thing, because they’ve got me rooming with this guy who snores, and it’s so loud he sounds like someone trying to start an airplane in a cave. I swear, I gotta get back home so I can sleep.”

“I’ll check with the police and call you later. I promise.” I hung up and fumbled with my shoelaces. My fingers were like ice. A bear or something. What did I know about grizzlies in our area? Supposedly they didn’t come this far south. But there had been reports of mountain lions in Idaho Springs, and there was no telling how the recent weird weather had affected migration and feeding patterns of Rocky Mountain wildlife. Oh, Marla, where are you?

I turned back to the phone. Call Tom immediately, a voice in my head commanded. But despite what I’d told Macguire, I was afraid to contact my husband. And I knew it was because, deep in my heart, I was certain he’d have bad news for me. As I debated, the phone rang again.

“Goldilocks’ Catering, Where… everything…” l A young female voice hesitantly inquired, “Er, is this Goldy, the caterer?”

“It is.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I can’t talk business, unfortunately, because I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”

“This is Kiki Belknap, calling from Prospect Financial? I’m Tony Royce’s secretary? Is he there? Because – “

“Of course he’s not here, it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning! Why on earth would Tony be here?”

“I’m sorry, because his calendar says so? I just don’t know, are you like, meeting with him, or just talking to him on the phone? It says here, Goldy, ask about menus for August reception, eight A.M., with your phone number – “

“Look, please let me call you back, Kiki, I have to check on my friend. Marla Korman – you know her, don’t you? She was supposed to be with him – “

“But you see, our office has just had a call from the police – “

“What did they say?” I interrupted sharply.

“They wanted to know where Tony was! And I’m like, I mean, after last week with Mr. Lipscomb, I’m like, what are you talking about, asking where Mr. Royce is – “

“I have to go,” I said brusquely. “Tony’s not here.” I tapped the button impatiently to get a dial tone, then punched in Marla’s number. Her machine picked up; I slammed the phone down.

I tiptoed quickly to Arch’s room. His bed was empty. Wherever he’d gone, he’d taken Jake. I rushed down to the kitchen. Where was Arch? There was a note crookedly taped onto the table:

Mom, I’m taking Jake for a walk around the lake. Don’t worry, I’m wearing my rainjacket just in case. I’ll go out the back way. Love, Arch.

I was so upset I forgot Tom’s number and had to look up the sheriffs department’s main number in the phone book. The operator put me through to Tom’s extension, where I again encountered a machine. I urged Tom to call me ASAP; I turned on the water without fitting grounds into the espresso machine. To make matters worse, when hot water spewed all over the counter, I picked up a dry sponge and managed to slosh the scalding liquid onto my hands and the floor. “Start over,” I mumbled. I dropped a paper towel onto the steaming counter and fumbled for the coffee beans.

I sighed and looked out the window at fog so thick I couldn’t even see my neighbor’s house. Would this wretched weather never end? I ground a cupful of coffee beans, scrupulously remeasured the water, and then pressed the button for espresso. While the dark strands of liquid began to spurt out, I again punched the numbers for Marla’s house. This time I got a busy signal. My heart leapt: I tried again and once more got a busy. The next time I punched in her number, I encountered her machine. I waited this time and said, “It’s me, pick up! It’s Goldy! If you’re there, damn it, pick up!”

No response. Perhaps someone else had been calling the machine just at the moment I’d dialed and received the busy signals. I shook my head, then tried Tom again.

He answered on the first ring. “Schulz.” His voice was guarded, as if someone were right there looking over his shoulder. “Can you talk?” “One sec.” He put me on hold, then came back. “Go ahead.”

“Macguire just called. He’s in the hospital. Tom, have you heard of any accidents? Has something happened to Marla?”

“Wait, wait.” He lowered his voice. “How do you get from Macguire Perkins in the hospital to something happening to Marla?”

“Let me back up,” I blubbered. “I should have told you that Macguire had started to fancy himself an investigator. He’s decided to become a cop instead of going to college. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you would think it was dumb. Anyway, I saw him Friday outside the soup restaurant, and I guess he was tailing them – Marla and Tony. I never thought that he’d follow them on their fishing trip this weekend.” I gave him the substance of my conversation with Macguire in the hospital. He listened patiently, without interrupting once.

“First of all, Miss G., I don’t think anybody’s aspirations are dumb, okay? Marla is his friend. He was worried about her. Now, where’s Headmaster Perkins? Has somebody let him know his son’s in the hospital?”

“I don’t know where Perkins is. Vermont, I think. For a month-long educational conference? I’m not sure. Macguire’s calling the school secretary, and he’s due to get out of the hospital tomorrow. But, Tom, where could Marla be? I mean, if Macguire was following them, and he got hurt, and then he couldn’t find Marla and Tony in the storm… where are they? Have you heard anything about people hurt up at Grizzly Creek? Tony Royce’s office just called – “

“Hold on a sec.” He put me in telecommunications limbo for what seemed like an age. When he came back his voice was grim. “Okay, they got a call late yesterday morning, a trucker said he picked up a hitchhiker who claimed a bear had torn up a campsite where Tony Royce and Marla Korman were camping. We haven’t heard from Marla or Tony, but you know the phones in Aspen Meadow were down most of yesterday.”

“The hitchhiker was Macguire.”

“A team’s already gone up to Grizzly Creek. Because it was Tony and Marla, Captain Shockley’s put himself personally in charge.” His tone very clearly said, And you know what that means. “Goldy, you’re going to have to let me get back to you.”

“Are there any …” I couldn’t say the rest.

“No reports of death, no bodies floating in the creek or washed up on the shore,” he said curtly, and hung up.

I grabbed my mug of coffee and my keys and ran out the back door.

Once I was in the van, however, I sat, bewildered. What was I doing, exactly? I took a slug of espresso and thought, What’s a logical explanation for this? Okay, Tony and Marla were miserable out there camping in that awful storm. There was some kind of problem with Marla’s Mercedes, so they got a ride out. Macguire said they only had the one car, and he didn’t see them leave. Then some animal got into their campsite while Macguire was asleep in his car. After that, a rock hit Macguire… . No.

I inhaled more caffeine and struggled to kick-start my brain. Okay. Say they came back early, for whatever reason – they could be at Tony’s place right now, or Marla’s, sleeping in, having fun, being naughty and missing Monday morning appointments. Maybe Marla’s answering machine was on but the volume was off – she rigged her phone that way all the time. She could have called somebody this morning when I got the busy signal, but not heard me begging for her to pick up later. So … was I going to go hauling over to Marla’s house, if that’s where they were, and barge in?

Was I up to making a fool of myself? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. And anyway, what if Marla and Tony weren’t even there, what if they were at a hotel somewhere? I turned the ignition on, then off.

What about Macguire? What was the worst-case scenario? I wondered about Albert Lipscomb. If what Eileen Tobey had said was true, then the Eurydice Mine venture was Tony’s project as much as it was Albert’s. If it was a bust, Prospect might not recover. Maybe, I wondered wildly, maybe Albert hadn’t left town at all. Tony had told everyone he and Marla were going fishing at Grizzly Creek this weekend. Albert could easily have come back for revenge on his partner, after Marla had found problems in the assay reports. Revenge for what? For not analyzing the mine properly? For risking the assets of the entire firm? Huge maybe questions. Then, after doing something to Tony and Marla, Albert had whacked Macguire for good measure, and slashed his tires, so that he could make his getaway with all that money before anyone got back to Aspen Meadow… .

But then where were Marla and Tony? With Albert Lipscomb? Dead in the rain near Grizzly Creek? I suddenly knew what I had to do.

Fog pressed against my windshield as the van inched toward Main Street. Cottony mist wove through streetside aspen branches. The van crunched over rutted gravel left in the destructive wake of the heavy rain. Once again, I had to slow behind a line of traffic. Ten car-lengths ahead, a road crew with two bulldozers scooped up the remains of a rock slide. I drank the last of the tepid espresso and tapped the steering wheel in frustration. I didn’t want to think about rock slides.

Where was Marla? Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of her house. A large pine branch, blown down in the storm, lay like a gnarled black bone in her groomed flower bed. The driveway was empty, the draperies pulled. There was no sign of movement on her street. I hopped up the stone steps. If Tony was here, I was going to recommend he break up with him. Immediately. Being involved with investment advisers, shady or otherwise, was getting to be burdensome on my cardiac health.

The doorbell dingdonged inside the silent house. I stared at my blurred reflection in the brass nameplate inscribed Chez Marla and waited. I rang again.

Decision time. She’d had a heart attack last summer. I’d gotten two busy signals and then nothing this morning. What if she was inside, and couldn’t call out, because she was having another heart attack? What if she needed me to do CPR? That’s my mom, I could hear Arch’s mocking voice. Always imagining the worst, and making you pay for her imagination.

Lucky for me, Marla frequently locked herself out of her own home. I hurried to the lock box under the utility gauges where I knew she kept at least two spare keys. I wrenched the box open, grabbed the one spare that was there, and sprinted back around to the front of the house.

The cold key bit into my palm as I once again pressed the doorbell and listened to it bong through the interior space. The key slipped from my hand and clanged onto the flagstone entryway. I picked it up and gently fit it into the lock. Unlike me, Marla had no sophisticated security system to protect against the Jerk or anyone else. She always claimed she had her ferocious personality to keep enemies at bay. The latch clicked, the knob turned, and I pushed the door open.

Stepping inside, I tried to prepare myself for the worst. If only I knew what the worst was, I reflected grimly. It was strangely heartening to sense a trace of Marla’s perfume in the air. In fact, the air in the house, surprisingly, was not three-day-old stale. I moved cautiously along the light blue Kirman runner into the front hall and sniffed again. Marla’s scent seemed to become stronger. So did the aroma of coffee.

Coffee? What the hell have I done? I wondered. She’s here with Tony and just not answering the phone. I’ve crashed in on a romantic interlude. She’ll never speak to me again, after this.

“Marla?” I ventured. “Hey, guys! Where are you? It’s Goldy. I’m here making a fool of myself because somebody said a bear got into your campground! Are you here?”

I fully expected to hear Marla’s familiar voice trill a sarcastic remark. Or perhaps her impish face and wild hair would appear and teasingly demand an explanation for my panicked behavior. Instead, I heard a tiny sound. Something hissed down the hall. I walked quickly toward it. Oddly, the kitchen floor was gritty with dried mud. The red light of the coffee machine blinked mockingly. Bubbles in the decanter bubbled and spat, producing both the scent and the sound I’d heard. I pulled the cord out of the wall and looked disconsolately around the room. I suddenly remembered something my mother used to do when she came home, and my brother and I looked guilty, and things in the kitchen didn’t look quite right. She would make a beeline for the trash bin. Whatever mischief we had made, whatever forbidden pizza or ice cream we had snitched, she figured, the telltale detritus was bound to be in the trash. I wrenched open the white cabinet and peered into the plastic garbage bag. It was filled with crumpled paper towels. I pulled one out. The towel was covered with dried blood.

“Marla!” I shouted. I threw down the towel and pawed through the trash. There was no meat tray or packaging to explain the bloodstained towels. I slammed out of the kitchen and ran up the back stairs, down the hall, and into her bedroom.

It was a disaster site. Clothes strewn on the beige carpeting. Towels draped over upholstered chairs. On her bed, the flowered bedcovers formed a mountainous tumble.

“Marla – ” I croaked, fully expecting a corpse under the sheets.

The covers moved. If there were two people under there, I would never live down the mortification. That is, if Marla didn’t murder me for being such a paranoid idiot. But it would serve them right for not answering the doorbell or my calls.

A half-full cup of coffee and opened container of pills sat on the dressing table. The bedside lamp was on. I stepped awkwardly toward the bed just as Marla’s snarled mop of hair appeared from under a tousled sheet. I gasped.

“Marla? What’s going on?”

An unearthly groan, full of shame and pain, issued from the rumpled bed. Then a batch of soiled towels emerged, then my best friend’s face. I gasped again. One black eye, the other swollen shut. A bruised cheek. A dark, bloody gash down her forehead. She levered herself carefully to a sitting position. She wore a sweatshirt spotted with blood, which she tugged down self-consciously before raising her face to try to look at me.

“No,” I moaned, dropping to my knees next to her. “Oh God, you need a doctor. What happened – “

“I wanted to call you, but the damn phone wasn’t working.” Her labored whisper squeezed my heart. “I’m sorry you have to … see me like this. I – “

I reached a hand out to her poor face but she pulled away. “Marla, please,” I said firmly. “I’m calling your cardiologist. Won’t you tell me what happened? We must call the police.” The words tumbled out. Anger made my ears buzz.

She groaned. “I was going to call the police in a little bit, anyway, if I couldn’t reach Tony. I don’t know if he got out, too. I don’t think he saw me … I’ve tried to reach him, but he’s not answering his machine. He’ll be so ticked off if we call the cops. More bad publicity for Prospect. Just give it half an hour,” she begged. She stifled a sob and reached for a tissue.

“Marla, please tell me what happened.”

“Somebody… I … I … think it might have been Albert… .” A sob shuddered through her. I put my hand on her forearm and waited for her to continue. She went on: “Actually, it started Friday night. Tony and I had a terrible fight.”

“Oh, no.” She groaned again, peered uncertainly around the room, then fastened her gaze on the coffee and pills at her bedside. She groped for the brown pill bottle. I leaned close to see what it was. The label read: Royce, Tony. Take one tablet orally every 4 hours as needed for pain. Acetaminophen with codeine.

“Oh, Marla, don’t take his prescription. What have you got it for, anyway?”

“He leaves his stuff here all the time. And he gets headaches. Actually, sometimes I think that guy is a – headache.”

“Marla – “

“Let me take some meds,” she insisted, “and then I’ll tell you what happened.” To my horror, she shook out not one but three pills, popped them into her mouth, then washed them down with cold coffee. She grimaced. Then she groaned and sank back onto the pillow.

“Wait,” I told her. “Let me get a washcloth for that eye.” When I came back, she had pressed her face into the pillows and refused to look at me. “Marla,” I implored, “don’t talk. You have to let me call Dr. Gordon. He’s going to want to see you right away. This is for your health, Marla. This is for your life.”

She moaned. Then she reached out and to my relief, took the cold washcloth I offered. When she had eased back upright, I found the bedroom phone, a gilt rotary contraption that was supposed to go with the French Provincial theme. My heart ached for her. She always tried to make everything beautiful. Miraculously, I remembered Dr. Gordon’s number. The phone rang once, twice. It was an emergency, I told the answering service. Did I need an ambulance, the woman wanted to know. In the mountain area, I knew emergency medical services were handled by a private company called Front Range Ambulance. With only two vehicles available, and almost twenty-four hours without phone service in the mountains, ambulance service would be slow, misdirected, or worse, unavailable. I could get Marla to the hospital faster myself. No, I replied to the operator, I needed the doctor to call me. Dr. Gordon was in surgery, and a Dr. Yang would call me back, she informed me calmly. Within two minutes Dr. Yang phoned. I told him a cardiac patient of Dr. Gordon’s had been badly beaten. He said to bring her to Southwest Hospital immediately.

“You’re going to have to go in,” I told Marla gently. “As soon as we get there, I’ll call Tom to tell him you’re all right and to ask him to put out an APB on Albert Lipscomb. Listen,” I blurted out, “Macguire Perkins followed you because he wants to be a cop… .” No matter what Tom said, it still sounded dumb. “Anyway, Macguire’s at Lutheran Hospital. Out at that campsite, somebody hit him, too. You, Macguire, probably Tony, too – all attacked. Marla, we must call the police as soon as we get you some medical attention.”

“Oh, Tony, Tony.” Marla groaned his name as she inched her way out of bed. Her legs were so bruised and badly cut that I bit back a cry of dismay. Without further protest, she let me help her into a large navy blue dress that buttoned up the front. I found her a pair of red sandals. She put them on, then slumped back on the bed, exhausted by the effort of dressing.

“Do you suppose Tony’s at home, but not answering? she asked. “What should we do, Goldy? I don’t know if he’d like my pressing the panic button before we can at least connect – “

“Do you think you could tell me what happened?”

She sighed. But the painkiller must have been taking effect, because she began to talk, very softly. “It was too cold Friday night to camp, and I told Tony I couldn’t sleep outside. I begged for us to drive up the next day. He got mad and we argued. But we came back here, cooked some of that soup you gave us, and then argued more about going up to the campsite that night. We went to bed-Tony in the guest room, mind you. But then he came in and woke me up, said he thought he heard an intruder. You know I sleep like a rock, I didn’t hear a thing. But he was in a terrible state. He insisted on tiptoeing around the house, looking for some nonexistent burglar. Finally he calmed down. When I woke up the next morning, I lay here thinking, we’re going out to share a tent in the wild, and he can’t even get through one night without being a mass of nerves?” She managed a rusty laugh.

“But, why did you go out there at all? On Saturday, I mean? There was that terrible storm… .”

She sighed, touched one of the bruises on her cheek, then winced. “I didn’t want to go, but he insisted. The weather was a little warmer, and the fog had cleared, it was just windy. By the time we got the car loaded up, though, rain threatened again. Tony was in a rotten mood. I was ready to tell him to go by himself. Except that we were going in my car, that Miata of his can’t always do the rough-road stuff.[ I should have told him to rent a Range Rover. I should have told him a lot of things.” She frowned. “Think it’s too soon for me to have another pain pill?”

“Absolutely too soon. Wait and see what Yang says. At the campsite, did you see Macguire or his Subaru?”

Even shaking her head seemed to cause her pain.

“No. We got up there to the site by Grizzly Creek, and Tony started acting jumpy as a rabid squirrel. He kept talking about Albert, saying this was their favorite fishing spot. We pitched the tent and of course it started to pour. We used Sterno and heated up some more of your soup. He kept saying, ‘Did you hear something? Think somebody’s out here with us?’ I said no fifty times, and then told him his paranoia was making me nuts and I was going to sleep. I was so tired I could have slept through a hurricane. Or so I thought until somebody grabbed me and pulled me out of the tent.”

“What? Who?”

“I don’t know. Somebody just started hitting me. I screamed and called for Tony. I tried to get my footing but it was muddy, dark, thunder blasting overhead, rain coming down like crazy… . It was like a nightmare. And it all happened so fast. I’d been in a deep sleep and then all of a sudden I was screaming my lungs out. But whoever was hitting me didn’t care. I finally managed to get out of the damn sleeping bag. I tried to hit back, grabbing at anything to use as a weapon. But this guy was strong. I thought it was a bear at first, but he grunted like a human. And what bear uses a piece of firewood to hit you? He hit me and hit me and hit me. Just as I was going down there was a flash of lightning, and I saw the guy moving away from me, and … he had no hair. It all went so fast. I thought, Where am I, where am I going, what am I supposed to do? I was l sure I was going to die.” Tears formed in her bruise-circled eyes.

“You fainted?”

“I was… I was… there was sand in my mouth and in my hair. The noise from the water was incredible… I finally figured I was on that sandy shoreline of the creek. With the rain coming down hard, and warm blood oozing over my face, I thought, Finally, finally, I get to rest. I was sure I was dead, or close to it. Later, in the night, I came to and the storm had become even more fierce, thunder, lightning, rain. I thought I heard someone calling me. ‘Marla! Are you here? Marla!’ “

“That was probably Macguire.” Her shoulders slumped. “I gasped, ‘Here! Here!’ But no one could have heard me over the creek and the storm. Besides, I thought I was hallucinating. My mind was so … mushy. Silly, even. My brain was laughing hysterically, saying, Nobody’s calling you, dummy, it’s Rochester wanting Jane Eyre! So there I was on the creek bank, every part of my body aching, wondering who would scream for me when I was about to kick the bucket. I knew I was dead.”

“Oh, Marla, I’m so sorry – “

She held up a hand to stop me. “When I woke up it was just past dawn. I think. Anyway, our campsite was a mess. I limped to my car, but it was locked. I must have lost the keys when the guy – Albert – attacked me. I finally hobbled out to the main road. A family going to church brought me home. I tried to call Tony but my line was dead.” The tears brimmed over. The painkillers were slurring her speech. “I was dying to call you… or come over… if we just had a taxi service in this hopeless town.

. .”

“Don’t,” I said firmly. “Everything will be fine now. I’m here with you.” I supported her as she stood shakily and walked, haltingly and with evident pain, toward the staircase. “My van’s parked out front. Do you want me to bring it around back, or can you make it down the steps?”

“Let me try to walk to your car. It’ll be good for me, I’m so cramped up.

We inched down the steps across the runner, then to the front door. I told Marla to hold on to a side table. I opened the door, and we both gasped.

Standing on the flagstone entry were two investigators dressed in plain clothes: Hersey and De Groot.

“Well!” said De Groot. He regarded the two of us with theatrical astonishment, his thick black eyebrows pulled upward. “Going someplace, ladies?”

12

“What is it, what are you doing here?” I asked. It felt like such a stupid question. Nevertheless, these guys had already proven they could make me feel idiotic. The pair eyed us with an undisguised mixture of hostility and suspicion that made me squirm.

“Aren’t you going to ask us about Schulz?” De Groot wanted to know. Before I could frame a response, he held up his hand and smirked. “He’s fine. At least the last time we saw him he was.” He quirked his eyebrows as if he were going to say more, but then seemed to think better of it. Blandly, he appraised Marla’s battered face. “Ms. Korman?”

With an uncharacteristic lack of resolve that made me want to put my arms around her, Marla replied, “Yes? What is it?”

“Can we come in?” I stepped between the cops and Marla. “No, I’m sorry, you can’t,” I replied curtly before she had a chance to respond. “As you can see, my friend’s in pain. Her doctor wants me to bring her in right away. We’ll talk to you later.”

Hersey ignored me. He stepped to one side and addressed Marla. “Got into another fight, did we, Ms. Korman?”

Marla said tonelessly, “It’s a long story.” I felt her embarrassment acutely. No woman likes to be seen covered with bruises and cuts: I knew that all too well from my personal experience with the Jerk.

My tone to the two investigators was icy. “Would you , please leave? We’re under doctor’s orders, on our way l to the hospital. My friend is hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” said De Groot. But he wasn’t. Cold, moist air billowed into the foyer. De Groot ran his fingers through his slick black hair. “We’re under time pressure, I’m afraid, Mrs. Schulz. If you take Ms. Korman here to the doctor, we’ll just have to follow you I down and talk to her there.”

“You’re joking,” I said. Again, he wasn’t.

“It won’t take long,” said Hersey.

“Oh, let them in,” said Marla dejectedly. “Let’s get this over with, then I’ll go see the doctor.” She turned away from the door and started to limp toward the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she said, “I don’t mind if you talk to me, as long as Goldy can stay with me.”

Her gait was pained and self-conscious, and I loathed Hersey and De Groot for their insensitive intrusion even as I jerked the front door open so they could enter.

They didn’t remove their dripping raincoats, and I decided this must be some kind of psychological ploy: We don’t want to be unprotected in this house. I didn’t care. I just wanted them to ask their questions and I leave. Hersey craned his thick neck upward to scrutinize the lushly carpeted staircase. Was he looking for someone? Hard to tell. De Groot peered at a framed painting. Executed in bold strokes, it showed a woman holding a cup of coffee.

“You won’t know this one,” I said defiantly. “It’s by a woman, a Colorado artist whom Marla is patronizing.”

De Groot said, “Yeah. I see she has plenty of money to pay people to do what she wants. Painting pictures. Driving her to the hospital. Sticking with her while she’s questioned.”

“You’d better cool it,” I said. De Groot looked down at the cherry buffet under the painting, which held a large Steuben vase filled with dried sweetheart roses. I was about to follow Marla when Hersey crooked a meaty finger in my direction.

“We know she wants you with her. But when we’re talking to her?” His voice brimmed with menace. “If you say anything-you blink, you wink, you clear your throat – you’re going outside. Understand?”

“Why are you here?” I shot back. “Does Captain Shockley know you’re conducting this kind of interrogation, when a woman should be in the hospital?”

He grinned. “Shockley sent us.” “I insist you wait to question her until I call Tom.” Hersey scowled. “You want to talk to somebody?

Go home and call Shockley. He’s real interested in your friend Marla Korman.”

Without a word I stalked into the kitchen. De Groot and Hersey sauntered in after me.

Evidently, De Groot had appointed himself in charge of this interrogation. And from the way the two policemen were acting-notebooks out, eyes noting each detail of the room, interrogation was precisely what they had in mind. I just hoped codeine-tranquilized Marla recognized the threat this posed.

De Groot smiled humorlessly at her. “We’re here to ask you about Tony Royce.”

Marla sank into one of the chairs and regarded De Groot dolefully. “Is he all right?” she asked sadly. “Did you find him?”

“No, not exactly. When was the last time you saw hi?”

Marla shook her head and looked away. Tears of embarrassment again welled in her eyes. “It would have been… Saturday night.”

“And where was that?”

To my horror, Marla began to sob. She stumbled across the room to the cabinet where the paper towel rack was mounted. Balancing herself against the counter, she ripped a towel off and dabbed her bruised eyes. Just don’t throw the towel into the trash with all the bloody ones, I implored her silently. She didn’t.

Staring out at the swirling fog, she struggled to compose herself. Finally she murmured, “We were… up at a camping site. By Grizzly Creek.”

De Groot asked, “And what were the circumstances of this last time you saw him?”

“There was a fight. Somebody dragged me out of our tent and beat me up. I think it was Albert Lipscomb.”

“So there was a fight?” De Groot repeated, with a glance at his partner, who gave a barely perceptible nod. “Okay, then, Ms. Korman, I need to tell you that you have the right to remain silent.” Goose bumps raced up my arms. “Also,” De Groot went on in a friendly voice, as if he were reciting a recipe, “that anything you say can and will be held against you. You have the right to an attorney and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

“I can afford an attorney-” Marla spat. “What the hell do I need – “

“Hey!” I hollered. “Hey! Don’t say another word, Marla! What’s going on here? What’s she a suspect for? Are you arresting her? You just stop right there. I’m calling my husband.”

Hersey stabbed his finger at me. “What did I say to you? Now you just shut up, or you can drive your little caterer’s van right back to your kitchen, you got that? Tom Schulz is not involved in this case.”

I turned to Marla. “Don’t talk. Let’s just go to the doctor.”

“She’s not going to any doctor,” Hersey interjected ominously. “She can either stay here and answer our questions or she can come down to the department and answer our questions.”

“Excuse me!” Marla yelled. Her bloodshot eyes were wild. “I have nothing to hide! I didn’t do anything except defend myself against an attacker! Why aren’t you out looking for him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to ask you about, if Mrs. Schulz here will be quiet,” De Groot said gently.

Marla squeezed her eyes shut. Why had the cops Mirandized her without an arrest? If she was a suspect, her state of mind wasn’t helping to clear her. Unfortunately, the codeine was kicking in big-time. I cursed’ myself for letting her take three pills. Finally she said, “Okay, look. I’ll answer your questions, and then I’m going to the doctor, you got that? Now exactly what do you want to know? I’m trying to tell you what happened. I was attacked. One minute I was in my sleeping bag, the next, somebody was whaling away at me.

De Groot thought for a moment, as if he wanted to be in charge of the conversation, and resented having Marla wrest control from him. “Can you describe your attacker?”

Marla said tentatively, “Well, there was so little time… but it seemed to me … that it was a man, very strong. Medium height, build. I saw the back of his bald scalp in a flash of lightning, as I was going down… .”

“Going down where?”

“At the side of the creek, after he hit me several times, I fell, and I guess I passed out. I came to in the morning, and got a ride back to town.”

De Groot went on: “When you got back to town, did you report this assault?”

“No, I didn’t, Officer, because our phones were dead. Is there something illegal about that?”

De Groot didn’t answer her question. “You don’t have a cellular phone?”

She sighed. “It’s in the Mercedes.”

“Where was Royce when this stranger was clobbering you?”

Marla clutched the paper towel and carefully eased herself back into the chair. “I don’t know. I thought he was there at the campsite, but it was so dark, and I was just trying to fend off this person… .”

“How did the fight end?” Marla faltered. “I told you, it happened so fast, bam, bam, bam, and then I passed out by the creek. That’s how it ended. When I came to, I stumbled out of there and down a path to the paved road. I flagged down a passing car.”

“Your Mercedes was there. Why didn’t you just drive home?”

“Because I couldn’t find my car keys, ‘that’s why!

The key ring must have gotten lost during the fight. Anyway, when I woke up, Sunday morning I guess it was, I was dazed and terribly disoriented, and I couldn’t find my keys. When I finally made it out to the road, this nice young family drove me home.”

De Groot said, “Did you happen to get the nice young family’s name?”

Marla huffed. “What was I going to do, write them a thank-you note? No, I didn’t get their name. I wouldn’t have remembered it anyway, the state I was in.

“Well… how old were they?”

“I don’t know. Young.”

“What did they look like?”

Marla searched her memory, but the painkillers were preventing access. She shook her head. “I truly can’t remember.”

“Do you remember what kind of car this nice young family drove?”

“I was in pain,” Marla said through clamped teeth.

“I don’t know what kind of damn car it was. They drove me home, they were going to church.”

“Did they offer to call us?”

Marla sighed. “Oh, yes. But I said I would do it.” She shivered and wiped her face with the paper towel. “Then got into my house, where the phone did not work.” She looked angrily at De Groot. “I was dizzy, Officer! In pain. Bleeding. I wiped off the blood, showered, and took an indeterminate number of painkillers. When the phone came back on this morning, I tried to call Tony twice. You can check his machine if you want. I wouldn’t even be going to the doctor if Goldy hadn’t shown up this morning.” She grimaced.

Neither policeman said anything for a moment. Then De Groot spoke.

“Before the car ride. Let’s go back to that, shall we? You and Tony,” he prompted, “Saturday night, had been doing… what?”

Marla replied, “We pitched the tent on a mound in case it started to rain, which it did. So we used a camp stove to heat up some food Goldy had made for us. Now that I do remember,” she said with a smile for me. “It was chicken soup and it was terrific. After we ate, we put our trash in the trunk of my car, you know, because of the threat of bears and other wildlife – “

Hersey interrupted with, “What else was in the trunk of your car?”

“What else?” Marla repeated blankly. “Well, let’s see. Tony had a gun – “

“What kind?” De Groot demanded. Marla’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, I don’t remember. I think it was a pistol. Anyway, it wasn’t loaded, but he said you had to bring it because of wildlife. Mountain lions or whatever. What else… Tony and I put our backpacks in there, clothes and whatnot – “

“Two backpacks?”

“I think so, two or three. It was raining hard, and we brought the lantern inside the tent. We closed the flaps and zipped them up. Then we shared some wine, and eventually we decided to … go to sleep.” She gave a small, embarrassed chuckle. “Anyway, we’d been asleep for a while, or at least I had, when something attacked us.” A confused expression shadowed her face. “At least, I think whoever it was attacked both of us.”

De Groot leaned forward intently. “And where was Royce? During this attack?” He still sounded skeptical that any attack had taken place.

“That’s what I can’t tell you. I couldn’t see anything. I kept calling out for him, but he never said a word. And then I thought, it’s Albert, he’s come back and… he wants something… or … he’s angry with me, because we had that argument at the., party, and now all the investors are suspicious… .”

“Albert Lipscomb,” echoed De Groot, making a note. “That’s who you thought was attacking you even before you saw his bald head when there was a flash of lightning. Lipscomb had come back to assault you and Tony Royce, only you don’t have a clue where Royce was at the time.”

“Well, I … no. Officers,” Marla pleaded. “I really want to see my doctor.”

“What time was this assault?” interjected Hersey.

Marla was startled, which was probably the effect Hersey desired. “I don’t know. I took my watch off Tony said you shouldn’t keep track of time when you’re camping.”

Both detectives fastened their eyes on her wrist, where a gold watch twinkled between the cuts and bruises. “This is one I put on when I got home,” she said with a defensive shake of her head. But even to me, it seemed the damage had been done. Was she lying or was she merely confused? Was there something she was concealing? “Anyway, I’d guess it was about two o’clock in the morning. Maybe later. Say four. It was dark, and the storm was unbelievable.”

Hersey said, “And before the attack, before the camping trip, you’d say Royce was your boyfriend?”

She exhaled painfully. “Something like that.”

Hersey persisted. “And how long had you known Royce before this little camping trip you took together?”

Marla slumped wearily. “I’ve been seeing Tony for about fifteen months. Give or take.”

De Groot made another note on his pad. “Could you be a little more specific, Ms. Korman?”

“Well, I’d have to look it up in my calendar.”

“You keep a calendar?” asked Hersey. “Like a diary?”

Marla nodded. “More or less. Upcoming events, stuff like that.”

“Could we see this calendar?”

No, no, no, I screamed mentally. But Marla had already hauled herself up obediently and shuffled over to the shelf Why was she being so compliant? It had to be the painkiller. I was dying to tell her that one rule applies equally to a criminal investigation and an IRS audit: Never volunteer anything. Marla frowned as she pulled first one thick notebook, then another off the shelf. “Okay, here we go, March, year before last. Let’s see, shopping, shopping, lunch, okay… here it is. Asti Spumanti and dessert at Eileen’s house.” My heart sank as she passed the notebook over to De Groot. “That’s when I met Tony. At Eileen’s house. He spent an hour trying to convince me to buy shares of Intel. I should have, as it turned out.”

In an offhand tone, De Groot said, “And this year’s? With the date of the camping trip?”

Marla groped along the shelf She ignored my glare, brought out another fat notebook, and leafed through. “Oh, brother.” Her voice sounded extremely tired. “Okay, here it is. Monday, June fourteen, that’s today, that’s almost exactly fifteen months, isn’t it? What, are you checking my math?”

De Groot stared at the calendar, then made a note. His mouth twitched. He tapped the calendar. “Hmm. Going to Europe this week? You? Alone?”

“I’m going with a group, if I can ever get down to the hospital and have these cuts and bruises taken care of.”

De Groot looked longingly in the direction of the coffeepot, then flashed a glance at me. I didn’t budge. I wasn’t about to indulge him.

“So, you have no idea where Tony Royce is now?” he asked Marla with surprising mildness.

“No, I don’t,” Marla replied. “I’ve been hoping he was going to call me, now that we have the phones back.” I ached to warn her again to stop talking. Marla didn’t know as much about interrogation as I did; that was why she wasn’t challenging them. It was also why these two dolts were asking so many questions and getting away with it.

There was an awkward silence. Hersey broke it. “Ms. Korman, are you aware that Tony Royce is missing?”

She sighed. “No.”

“And were you getting along with Tony Royce?”

“Yes, of course I was getting along with him,” Marla snapped.

Hersey said, “Did you have a fight with him that night at the tent? Was it Royce who hit you?”

“I don’t know!” cried Marla, furious. “I don’t know who it was! I thought it was Albert Lipscomb! I told you that, except that it was all incredibly fast and… violent.”

“Were you and Tony and Albert in on a scam with that mine? What went wrong? You and Tony had a falling out, Tony went off with Albert?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Beneath the bruises, Marla had gone pale.

“Did you find a weapon to use against your attacker?” Hersey persisted.

Marla sighed. “No. Although I wanted to get the gun out of the car – “

“Had Royce brought any other weapons?” interrupted Hersey.

Marla made a face and closed her eyes. “His fishing knife,” she said softly.

“Did you use the fishing knife as a weapon? Tony’s fishing knife, that is,” asked De Groot in that same mild voice.

“No,” said Marla acidly. “Of course not.”

“Did you stab Royce?” His eyes bored maliciously into Marla’s. “Did you shove him into the creek after you stabbed him?”

“No, no, no!” cried Marla, indignant and trembling. “Of course not.”

“Okey-doke.” Hersey shot a look at his partner that I didn’t like. “We were just wondering.”

De Groot pulled out a sheet from the bowels of his notebook, then smiled unpleasantly. “We were also pondering the fact that we have to answer to our boss, Ms. Korman. We know you want to get going to the doctor, and we need to get going, too. This is just a consent-to-search form, so we can look around your house. If you wouldn’t mind signing it?”

I could no longer contain myself. “Don’t do it, Marla!”

But to my dismay, Marla scanned the sheet, took the pen De Groot slipped her, and scrawled her signature. “Don’t worry, Goldy, they’re not going to find Tony. He’s not here.”

“It’s a fishing expedition,” I raged. “What is going on here? You know damn well that you can’t be ran-sacking her house for anything that just might catch your eye!”

But De Groot plucked the consent form from Marla’s hand and smirked as they sauntered out of the kitchen. Marla’s defeated expression made my heart sink. “Just let them go, Goldy,” she murmured. “They’re not going to find a thing. They’re certainly not going to find Tony. I swear to you, I honestly don’t know where the hell he could be, and believe me, it’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since Saturday night.”

I shook my head. The way Marla was handling these cops’ treatment of her was scary, especially when I suspected they were carrying out some unknown agenda dictated by Captain Shockley. Her carelessness was mind-boggling. “You’re going to need a lawyer, as soon as possible,” I hissed. “You didn’t even think of Tony’s prescription up on your table!”

“That’s nothing. What I need is a doctor and a stronger painkiller. I’ve heard Vicodin is pretty good… shh, here they come.” ~ De Groot and Hersey slammed back into the kitchen. It wasn’t difficult to see both were extremely unhappy.

“No skeletons in my closet,” Marla toodIed, and I repressed the urge to smirk at De Groot. He ignored me and pulled on the door of the closet, where he spent a few minutes groping about noisily. Then he opened the upper cabinets while Hersey peered in the bottom ones. Finally De Groot creaked open the door of the bathroom between the kitchen and the dark hall. He flipped on the light and peered inside. With a whoop of triumph, he emerged holding a piece of jewelry.

“What’s this?” he crowed.

“It’s Tony’s watch,” Marla said dryly. “He forgets it here all the time.”

De Groot examined the golden Rolex. “He usually leaves a twenty-thousand-dollar wristwatch in your bathroom cabinet?” he said scathingly.

Marla shrugged. “I think they’re up to about twenty thousand five hundred, if you want to know the truth. He has his own closet here, too. So what?”

De Groot was staring at me, maybe because in surprise I’d inadvertently opened my mouth. “But your friend Goldy doesn’t really believe Tony Royce would leave his valuable watch in his girlfriend’s bathroom, now does she?”

Marla gaped at me. Unwisely, I said, “If I knew anything about that watch, Deputy, I wouldn’t tell you. And why aren’t you wearing plastic gloves? Haven’t you ever heard of tainting evidence?”

De Groot’s face set in that familiar, enraging smirk. “Now that’s what I call cooperating with law enforcement. We heard about this watch from our captain. He asked if we’d found the Rolex at the campsite, because it was Royce’s most prized possession, and he never, ever was without it.”

“Bull-shit!” Marla screeched. Her swings from passive behavior to rage were making me dizzy.

De Groot yelled right back at her, “Hey! Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“I have told you the truth!”

“Then you want to tell me what piece of clothing with whose blood all over it is in the trunk of your Mercedes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Marla Korman,” said De Groot, “you are under arrest for the murder of Anthony Royce.”

13

“No, no!” cried Marla. She rushed toward me and I clasped her tight.

“You are arresting her!” I protested. “Do you have Royce’s body? What grounds can you possibly – “

Hersey shoved me toward the counter. I gasped and whirled back around. De Groot had seized Marla. Hersey reached a burly hand into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out handcuffs. Marla cried out in protest.

I leapt toward my friend. The cops were too fast. Hersey pushed my shoulder and I fell to the floor. De Groot pinned both of my friend’s arms behind her; back and clicked the cuffs into place. Marla cried out in pain, then fell silent. “Mrs. Schulz.” Hersey’s little eyes were scornful as he stared down at me. I rubbed my shoulder and gave him a hateful look. “Get out of our way and keep your mouth shut. Otherwise we’ll have to arrest you, too.”

“But you can’t, you just can’t do this-” “You are hurting me!” Marla yelled. She struggled against the cuffs for a minute, then added fiercely, “Officer, you are going to be so unhappy when my attorney gets through with you, you cannot even imagine –

“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said De Groot, “the woman with the violent threats. We’ve heard all about you.”

“Goldy!” Marla sobbed. “Help me! I need the pills in my purse! I need – “

Hersey and De Groot pushed her toward the door.

“I’m following you,” I called out. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed Marla’s purse from the counter. “I’ll be right behind you in my van! We’re going to get this straightened out!”

“Goldy! Don’t let them do this!” Marla’s voice cried again. “Help me!”

“I will!” I called back as they tucked her into the sheriff’s department sedan.

But I wasn’t sure she heard me. My anxiety grew as the sedan pulled away into the fog. How in the world could they charge Marla with murder? Why wouldn’t they tell me whether they’d found Tony Royce’s corpse out there by the Grizzly Creek campsite? What words had Marla uttered that justified the homicide charge? Could they arrest her just because there was bloody clothing in her car trunk? And why hadn’t Tom called to warn me about all this?

As I gunned the van down I-70 in the direction of the sheriff’s department, I grew increasingly certain of one thing: Shockley was behind all this. Shockley the big investor, Shockley the paranoid cop, Shockley who knew all about Tony’s gold watch and who had wanted to know where Marla had gotten the money for her expensive car. I braked abruptly as the van hit a patch of thick mist. Keeping Tom ignorant of a homicide investigation that implicated his wife’s closest friend would probably give the boss-guy a keen sense of satisfaction. I’d bet anything that was why the captain had sent his two Rottweilers to interrogate Marla.

The fog thinned slightly as I drew up to the jail’s garage entrance. The new ten-story building towered above the parking lot. There was enough visibility to make out a department car disappearing through the closing automatic door. I cursed silently and drew the van up to the video camera. The lens was trained on drivers wanting to go through the police entrance to the garage.

Static issued from the speaker under the lens. “State your business,” a no-nonsense male voice demanded. Or at least I think that’s what it said.

I exhaled in frustration. They’d never let me in now. I said, “Never mind. I’ll just use the public entrance.” I don’t know what I was expecting when I pushed through the entrance door to the jail. Despite my occasional involvement with investigating crime, I had never been to the place. Surprisingly, the reception area was similar to what one would expect in a small hotel, although more austere. Three pairs of plain beige couches were precisely placed on a spotless beige carpet. A free-form counter protruded from one of the beige walls like a concrete water lily. Breaking up the walls were vast expanses of wavy glass bricks held together with inch-thick white mortar. The thick glass was undoubtedly designed to allow sunlight to penetrate the lobby in a way that the eye – and bullets from avenging relatives, I imagined – could not. I hugged Marla’s purse to my chest and pressed forward.

“I need help,” I said haltingly to the short police-i:\ woman behind the forbidding counter. The deputy’s dark green uniform stretched across her plump frame, and she wore her streaked blond hair in a French braid woven so tightly it would have given me a headache. “I’m here to see a friend, Marla… Marla Korman.

She has… just been taken into the jail.” I cleared my throat and willed control. “You see, there’s been some terrible, terrible mistake,” I said firmly, “because she would never – “

“Hold on,” said the policewoman. She asked me to spell Marla’s name as she typed on a computer keyboard. She puzzled over the screen for a minute, then turned to me, shaking her head. “I don’t know what the charge is, and probably won’t for a while – “

“Please,” I begged, shameless now, “please. I’m Mrs. Schulz. Mrs. Tom Schulz. Couldn’t you please call the officer on duty at the jail and find out what’s going on with my friend? She’s in poor health, and she’s been badly beaten, and the cops who arrested her were hurting her… .”

The policewoman leaned forward. “There’s no one to call, Mrs. Schulz. There won’t be anyone until she’s processed. I’m sorry to say this, but unless you’re her attorney you’re not going to be able to see your friend until visiting day Friday – “

“Friday! She could have a heart attack before Friday! She doesn’t even have her medication!” I yanked Marla’s purse up. “It’s called Inderal. It’s in here and they wouldn’t let – ” The policewoman relieved me of the purse in a smooth motion and stowed it under the desk.

“What you need to do,” she scolded in a calm, even tone that indicated she had dealt with far more hysterics than she cared to, “is go home. Wait for your friend to call.”

I was getting nowhere. I had to think of another way to help Marla. I ran back out to the parking lot and considered my options. I knew one thing: I was not going home to wait for Marla to call. Her plaintive cry to me as she was hauled away still echoed in my head. I trotted down the steps to the sheriffs department’s main entrance.

“Tom Schulz, please,” I told the duty deputy at the counter. His desk was a smaller version of the one in the jail lobby. The young deputy himself was so thin his uniform hung on him; he looked like a scarecrow. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty. “Deputy … ?” I glanced at his nameplate. “Carlson? Would you please tell Tom Schulz his wife’s here?”

Deputy Carlson picked up a phone and punched buttons, then spoke in low tones. I couldn’t make out what he was saying and couldn’t tell if he was calling Tom, the upstairs duty officer, or, heaven forbid, Captain Shockley. I vigorously shook off this last thought. My paranoia did not extend that far. After a moment the deputy hung up and said Tom would be right down.

Five minutes later, Tom strolled toward me with all his usual self-confidence. It felt like ages since I’d seen him last, although it had only been the previous night. His green eyes sought mine and he seemed to assess my mood instantly.

“Let’s go up and get some coffee,” he said pleasantly, as if I’d arrived to go over the grocery list.

He smiled and waved at the cop at the desk. I’m in control here. Nothing to worry about. Sure.

“Come on,” he said aloud in the tone that warned, We’re in public; act like nothing’s happened. “Let’s go get some caffeine. There’s an old friend of yours who wants to talk.” When I gasped and brightened, he lowered his voice, but kept the same smile. “It’s Armstrong. He’s been up to the Grizzly Creek scene. He was in the vicinity checking a mountain lion report, and heard about the trucker’s call on the radio.”

I slipped my arm in his and walked by his side, as if I came down to the sheriffs department all the time to drink bitter vending machine coffee with my husband.

Three uniformed officers were leaving the break room just as we entered it. They nodded and said, “Schulz,” but sent furtive glances in my direction. No doubt my wild eyes and splotched cheeks didn’t play very well. Poor guy, I could imagine them thinking, she’s got some problem and expects him to solve it.

“Does everyone know what’s going on?” I murmured once Tom had brought me a steaming coffee with powdered creamer still dissolving on top. I stared into the brew with dismay.

“Tough to tell.” Hardly had he spoken when Deputy Armstrong pushed into the room. I had known Armstrong, pasty – faced man with thin brown hair – for a couple of years. He gave me a sympathetic look and joined us.

“They’re putting her into jail pending formal announcement of charges,” he began without cushioning the blow.

“When can I see her?” I asked. I sounded absurdly calm. “Is there anything I can do?”

Armstrong frowned. “They have visiting days. And no, there’s nothing you can do to help. She’ll call the lawyer she wants. They arrested her today because they found out she was planning on leaving the country.”

Marla’s calendar. I nodded, heavy-hearted. “But listen. She needs the medication I gave to the jail receptionist. That won’t get lost in red tape, will it? Plus, she needs to see a doctor.”

Tom touched my shoulder. “The jail nurse will see her. She’ll get her pills. The last thing they want is a wrongful death lawsuit, believe me. Is she hurt? Or are you just worried about her heart?”

“Someone beat her up at the campsite and left her to die. And whoever it was did the same to Macguire, I’m sure. Tom, Tony Royce is missing, and those two cops are saying she killed him. It’s utterly absurd. Marla couldn’t hurt anyone.” Except the Jerk, and he’d asked for it.

“Do they think they fought, and she killed him in self-defense?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know! Those cops tricked her,” I told him ferociously. “That horrid DeGroot Mirandized her when she hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. Had her sign a document saying they could search her home. She thought they were looking for Tony. I tried to stop them, but no one would listen to me. De Groot kept telling me to shut up. They shoved me, Tom. But they hurt her… .” I fell silent.

“She told them she was in a fight, right?” Tom asked gently. When I nodded, he added, “That’s when she became a suspect in their eyes.”

“But is Tony Royce dead? Do they have his body? How did he die? And what about his missing partner, Lipscomb? Marla said a bald guy was beating her up! Do you have any idea where he is? Why isn’t he under suspicion?”

“Miss G., for what? Do you think Lipscomb was camping at the site and they surprised him?” Tom’s eyes questioned me. I shrugged, and he went on: “Maybe a bald guy attacked her. But my bet is that the missing partner is long gone. He took that money and skipped. The one Shockley theory I’ve heard is that Albert Lipscomb, Tony Royce, and Marla were in on a scam together. When it went bad, she murdered Royce.”

“Oh yes,” I said impatiently. ‘.They tried that one out on us. Then what bald guy attacked Marla?”

Tom tapped the table with his coffee cup and shook his head. “Who knows? If Lipscomb running off with all that money means the end of Prospect Financial, we might want to look at those investors. Seems to me they’d be pretty angry at the remaining partner, don’t you think?”

Deputy Armstrong shrugged. “Seems like a long shot to me,” he said softly.

I sipped the bitter coffee and pondered an even more bitter scenario: Marla in prison for murdering Tony Royce and for stealing three and a half million dollars.

Deputy Armstrong gave me a doleful look. “We don’t have Royce’s body, and we’re not going to be able to search the creek for a long time to recover it.”

I put my cup down. Suddenly I longed to be back in my own kitchen, where homicide, arrests, and missing partners who had embezzled enormous sums of other people’s money couldn’t touch me. “Let’s start over. What is the status of the Royce investigation?”

“Okay,” Armstrong said grimly. He knew he was giving me terrible news. “De Groot and Hersey were up at the site first. Shockley sent them because the report we’d gotten said the two people who might be hurt were involved somehow with Prospect Financial. It’s getting to be a joke around here, how hysterical the captain is about his retirement account. Anyway, the trucker had driven some beat-up kid to the hospital, name of Perkins. Apparently you know him, too?”

I nodded. “Macguire’s my assistant. He wants to be a cop, so that’s why he started following Marla and Tony around after Tony’s partner disappeared.”

Armstrong raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on Macguire’s detecting ambitions. Beside me, I heard Tom sigh softly. “Anyway,” Armstrong continued, “there was a report of a mountain lion mauling a dog by Bride’s Creek, not too far from the Grizzly Creek campsites. Wildlife Service was already there, so when I heard the radio report on this possibly injured couple, I drove up to the campsite. De Groot and Hersey were already there.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve never seen Grizzly Creek so high. I sure wouldn’t want to camp there. If you fell in, lost your balance fishing, you’d never survive. And something was really wrong at the site. Firewood everywhere. Pots and pans. Clothing. Sleeping bags. In all that mud, it could have been two, three sets of footprints. Hard to tell. One set was from a man’s boots.” He looked at me. “The boots belonged to Royce, We know that. Expensive leather, hand-tooled. We found one boot by the creekbank. The other’s missing.”

I groaned. The trail led to the creek. So far, the evidence seemed to point to Tony Royce – alive or dead – having been dumped in the water. Not for the first time, I wondered if Marla was telling the whole truth. Maybe she had fought with Tony. Maybe she had pushed him into the water in self-defense. But what could they have been fighting about? I closed my eyes, then opened them and said resolutely, dreading the worst, “How can you charge somebody with murder when you don’t have a corpse?”

“You can,” Armstrong answered matter-of-factly. Tom nodded. “People kill people and dispose of the body. If we’ve got enough circumstantial evidence, we can get a conviction, Miss G., even without a corpse. And as far as that high water goes-well, we get fishermen missing all the time in the springtime, don’t pick up their bodies downstream for six weeks to three months, whenever the water recedes… .”

Assume Marla is telling the truth, I ordered myself: Go from there. “Marla said she was beaten up at night,” I insisted. “I don’t believe anyone was fishing. Also, Marla was and is physically wrecked. I doubt she’d have had the strength to push anyone into the water. Or to drag a body from the campsite to the creek.”

Armstrong gave me that I’ve-seen-it-all cop look that always drives me crazy. “Maybe it was dusk. Point is, the water is high, and some people had a fight about something, and it looks as if Korman pushed Royce in. Where else could he be? We probably won’t find him until his body catches on a rock in front of somebody’s creekside house.” He got up and bought a cup of hot chocolate from the vending machine.

“But that’s just not possible,” I maintained. “Think about it. Marla had her car. If they’d had a disagreement, why wouldn’t she just drive away?”

Armstrong began a patient explanation. “Tom heard about the three-way scam theory. I’ll tell you what I heard. Captain told the guy who sits by me that Tony Royce lost a lot of Korman’s money over some investment. Captain even saw her arguing about it with Royce’s partner Lipscomb only last week. And so another of our captain’s theories is that maybe Royce didn’t show enough interest in recouping Ms. Korman’s big investment. She was furious. Fought with Royce at the campsite. But not before she took something of his. Maybe that’s what they fought about. She wanted some payback and he wouldn’t give it to her. Apparently, Royce had this gold watch he wore all the time. Not worth as much as what he owed her, but worth something. And then they found the watch at her house, right?”

“You mean, when they did their little search? Yes, they found a watch in the bathroom. But she says he left it there all the time.”

Armstrong shrugged. He drained his cup and tossed it into the garbage pail.

I said, “A watch, a boot, and several sets of unidentified footprints don’t equal a murder arrest. I’m sorry. Shockley’s theories are lame.”

Armstrong crossed his arms. “Okay, then there’s the bloody shirt. Did you ever see Tony Royce in a white shirt, initials monogrammed on the pocket? It was in the locked trunk of Korman’s car.” He glanced at Tom. “You know how Hersey is with those lock picks – “

“Wait, wait,” I said. “They searched her trunk without a warrant? I just can’t believe – “

“Exigent circumstances, Goldy,” Tom told me. “The investigators have a messed-up campsite, a report of a teenager who’s been beaten, two people missing, they’re going to think, There might be somebody in this trunk dying, we need to get him out. When it’s a matter of life or death, we can break into somebody’s trunk. And before you ask, they can tell it’s blood on the shirt with a chemical test. It’ll take them at least a week with typing and matching to see if the blood belonged to Tony Royce.”

“That’s not all they found in the trunk,” Armstrong added. “They found her keys, which would explain why she had to walk out and get a ride. So anyway, they’re up there with all this stuff and they decide to call in and find out what’s going on with this Marla Korman. And when they do, it turns out she’s had a complaint lodged against her from a few years ago, the guy she used to be married to. That was about money, too. Neighbor called it in as a domestic, and by the time the cops got there, this Doctor Korman had a dislocated shoulder. Get this-Shockley called up Korman this morning in Honolulu. The doc said, ‘Yeah, my ex is as strong as an ox, has a bad temper, is always threatening violence when she doesn’t get what she wants, and unlike a lot of women, has no fear about turning her violence on men.’ “

I drank more of the coffee, shuddered, and tried to think. “I’m sorry, but I really cannot believe all this. I mean, I’m not saying you’re lying, but this is such an incredible amount of baloney that it’s ridiculous. Our ex-husband was physically abusive, and you have the photographs of me covered with bruises in your files to prove it.”

“Do they have photos like that of Marla?” asked Armstrong.

“No,” I replied, “she filed for divorce after the incident with the shoulder dislocation. She stood up to him a lot better than I managed to. And ended the marriage a lot quicker.”

Armstrong sighed, and we were all quiet for a minute. Finally Tom asked, “Do you have a theory as to what happened, Miss G.?”

“Yes, I do.” I tried to soften my indignation to earnestness. “I think the person you want is Albert Lipscomb. He disappeared after Marla accused him of using assays from a disreputable lab. The assays are crucial for a mine to be successful, because they are analyses of ore in the mine. They tell you how much gold is in your ore. If you don’t have reliable assays, you’re not going to have a gold-producing mine, it’s that simple. When Marla found out what he was up to, Lipscomb panicked. He stole over three million dollars from the partnership account, and now he’s killed Tony and set Marla up somehow. For heaven’s sake, she saw him, or

someone who looked just like him, up at the campsite.” Tom rubbed his forehead as he considered this. “Why would a fugitive, with a fortune in stolen money,-risk taking on two people-make that three, including Macguire-at night, out in the middle of nowhere?” “Reveng~ over a bad investment,” I replied. “I don’t know: Revenge for ruining a perfectly good venture capital firm?” I paused. “Maybe Tony had or has some-thiBg else Albert wants. Maybe Albert had to get rid of Tony because he knows something, or Tony could fig-ure out where his partner would go with the money… .” Tom said gently, “I’m just telling you, it sounds more farfetched than the stealing-the-Rolex theory.” “And I’m just telling you, there is no way on earth Marla would hurt anyone and throw him into the creek.” “There are big inconsistencies in her story, Goldy,” Armstrong interjected. He counted off points on his fingers. “First, the times. The family that picked her up says she got into their car around nine, not seven, as she claims. And if Tony was missing and she’d been beaten up, why didn’t she ask those people to call the police? Okay, her phone was out. But if she came home Sun-day morning after a big fight with an unknown assailant, couldn’t she have walked over to a neighbor’s for help? Wouldn’t you do that?” “I don’t know,” I said .miserably. He made it all sound so plausible. Was Marla lying? “I’m not done,” Armstrong went on. “What she says was in the trunk of the Mercedes and what was actually in there. Looks like whoever put the shirt in the trunk – and Shockley’s thinking is that she did – dropped the keys in there by accident. That’s why she had to walk out to the road. She locked herself out of her own car. And … there was a fishing knife in the trunk, too. Covered with blood.”

I said, “Was there a gun in the car?”

Armstrong shook his head. “No gun.” I turned to my husband. “Tom, you know Marla. You know this can’t be true. Please tell me you’ll be able to help her. You can’t imagine how rough those cops were with her.”

He said earnestly, “Shockley won’t let me touch this case. Goldy, look. Tell me this. Do you really believe Marla’s story?” His eyes challenged me. “Why wouldn’t she ask that family to bring her to our place, where we could have taken care of her? She always wants you to get involved in her crises. What could possibly be her explanation for not coming to us that morning, if what she says is true?”

I stared at the grimy linoleum floor. Tom was right. Marla involved me in every aspect of her life. This had been true since her divorce from the Jerk, when we became best pals. But on Sunday, maybe she’d wanted privacy. She took great care with her appearance, and perhaps she’d been too humiliated by the way she looked. On the other hand, I’d visited her numerous times after the heart attack. She’d never looked great in the hospital, but she hadn’t once shunned my company. I shook my head. There didn’t seem to be an answer to Tom’s questions.

“I hope she has a very good lawyer,” Tom said quietly. He took my hand. “Because I will not be able to help her, and neither will you.”

I looked at him for a long time, long enough for Armstrong to pad out of the room. Long enough for a quartet of loud detectives to come in and buy vending machine cinnamon rolls, which they heated in the microwave while they chatted about a ring of thieves stealing credit cards.

“I need to go,” I announced stiffly. I pulled my hand from his.

“Goldy, I’m telling you,” Tom warned in a low voice, “Shockley will put me on suspension if I muck up his investigation. If Lipscomb, or one of the investors, or some enemy of Royce’s, framed Marla, we’ll find him. Please be patient. Forensics is out at the site right now. Maybe they’ll find something to clear her. I doubt any jury in this county would convict her on what we have at this point. There’s just not enough evidence.” He hesitated. “Can you talk to me about a motive she might have for fighting with Royce? Were they getting along?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think they were. He told me he was going to ask her to marry him, but it certainly doesn’t sound as if he proposed.”

His face was unreadable. Finally he said, “I’ve seen a thousand nutty cases fall apart. Please. If you really care for Marla, if you really want to help her, don’t land yourself in jail for obstruction of justice. Don’t get in that kitchen and start cooking and think, Oo, oo, I’m gonna hatch something up. Please?”

I said evenly, “You have no idea how badly De Groot and Hersey treated her. She cried out to me to help her and I couldn’t. Shockley is up to something, I’m telling you. This stolen-watch theory, for example. How lame can you get? He’s out for her blood, and he’s going to get it.”

“She’ll hire a good lawyer to get her out of this,” he assured me.

Beg to differ. I stood. Something Tom had said about the Mercedes had sparked a glimmer of an idea: a matter of life or death. That’s why the cops had broken into the trunk. And something Sam Perdue had related to me connected with it: They have to do that when it’s a matter of life and death. What I was thinking was bizarre beyond words, but at least it represented a glimmer of hope. And I had to get Marla out of Shockley’s clutches. “Would you do one thing for me? Actually, for Marla? Please?”

He looked dubious. “I can’t imagine what this is going to be.”

“You know how I worry about… what she eats. Her diet. Would you just bring up the jail menu for me on your computer? For lunch and dinner today? I’d feel better… knowing that she had some healthful options.”

He raised one eyebrow, but nodded. I followed him to his desk, where he punched a keyboard and finally came up with the day’s menu at the Furman County Jail.

For lunch at noon, the inmates were having tuna salad sandwiches, corn chips, and cookies. No help there.

For dinner at six, they were having chipped beef on noodles, green beans, rolls, and lime Jell-O for dessert.

Bingo.

14

I told Tom I needed to visit Macguire, do a few errands, check on Arch, and try to call Marla. He said he might be home late. He was still working the soccer arrests. I squeezed his hand and left quickly. I tried to 1 will away a pang of remorse. I wasn’t deceiving him yet, I told myself I just needed to help Marla. I drove away from the sheriffs department in a thick mist. When I saw the orange and green lights of a convenience store, I parked. The day Marla had had her heart attack, I’d been away catering. I’d always felt guilty for my absence, as if her lonely physical ordeal, the Flight-For-Life helicopter ride, the surgery, were events where I should have been beside her. Now, almost a year later, she’d been savagely beaten, accused of murder, and jailed. No amount of lowfat cooking and: cheery company were going to help her now.

I rummaged through my wallet, found the number I was searching for, then used the pay phone.

A crisp voice answered and I identified myself. I said, “I need to speak to General Bo Farquhar. ASAP.”

The voice responded flatly: “The general’s out in the field finishing trials on some equipment. You’ll have to call back later. Say,” – I envisioned a bored glance at a blinking, state-of-the-art digital watch – “fourteen hundred hours?”

“Listen up,” I retorted ominously, “don’t give me that baloney. Bo won’t want to know you were the one who prevented him from learning about a life-and-death situation affecting a family member. Because that’s what I have to report to him right now—”

There was so much immediate static that I thought I’d gotten the Marconi version of Go to hell. then the line crackled.

“Farquhar here.”

“It’s Goldy,” I began. The enormity of what I was about to tell him almost made me light-headed. I plunged ahead. “I have some bad news about Marla. She, I, we … need your help. We need to get her out of danger and clear her name.” Then I quickly outlined, through the crackling static, what had happened. Or what I thought had happened. How Marla had gone on a fishing trip with her boyfriend. How she’d been attacked at night and had to hitch a ride home. How it looked as if the assailant had also attacked Marla’s boyfriend, Tony Royce. Now Tony was missing, the police had found some bizarre evidence both in Marla’s car and strewn around the campsite, and Marla had been charged with murdering Tony Royce. I told him about the high water at Grizzly Creek, about the signs of a scuffle, the knife and the bloody shirt in Marla’s car. “Formal charges,” I concluded, “are going to be filed within two days.”

General Bo swiftly digested all this. “My dear,” he said promptly, “what can we possibly do?”

“My idea is illegal,” I said bluntly. “But I’m going to need you, a four-wheel-drive vehicle, camping equipment, and food for” – I counted mentally – “five people for two or three days, I think. And, uh, a good map of the back roads and the trails along Grizzly Creek.”

“Can do,” Bo Farquhar said.

I looked at my watch: eleven o’clock. “Can you be at my house with all that by five tonight?”

“You know,” he observed wistfully, “I’ve always wanted to help my sister-in-law. I’m very fond of Marla.”

“So you’re willing to help?”

“We’ve just finished our equipment trials here. My ankle’s healed up. I’ll be at your house at seventeen hundred hours,” he said crisply. His voice bristled with the authority that had become familiar when I was working for him. “I’ll bring the supplies.”

I hung up. My stomach growled fiercely. The mundane – in this case, no food all day – invariably intrudes when you least want to take care of it. I’d call Arch and then get over to the hospital. A place that made marvelous spring rolls was on the way. I’d take some to Macguire, too. Every time I’d been in the hospital, I’d spent a lot of time fantasizing about food.

I plunked in another coin to call home and heard Jake howling even before Arch could say, “Goldilocks’ Catering… Jake! Be quiet! Where everything – “

“It’s me. Listen, hon, there’s something I need you to do.”

“Jake, hush! Where are you, Mom?”

“Oh, honey, it’s a long story, but Marla’s having some problems.” A mild understatement.

“She’s not back in the hospital?”

“No.” I took a deep breath. “She’s in jail.”

“In jail? For what?”

“She’s charged with a murder she didn’t do. But listen, I have to go over to Wheat Ridge to visit Macguire – “

“I like Macguire! May I visit him, too? What’s he doing in Wheat Ridge?”

“Honey, he’s in the hospital. He … got beaten up by the same person who got Marla into trouble.”

“Can’t I come with you? What’s going on?”

“I promise I’ll tell you when I get home, if you’ll just do this one favor for me. Please call the main number for the sheriffs department and get connected with the women’s side of the jail. Ask that Marla call you at home as soon as possible.”

“Call the jail? Get Marla to call me from jail? What am I going to talk to her about? I’m going to feel really dumb.”

“You just have to tell her one thing. It’s very important, Arch. Tell her the message is from me, and that she has to eat as much Jell-O as possible at dinner tonight. Have you got that?”

He paused. “That is the stupidest message I ever heard. Besides, if you haven’t checked – “

“Jell-O, Arch,” I interrupted him, “you got it?”

His voice was resigned. “Oh-kay! Whatever! Can I be in on this, what you’re planning?”

“Arch!” Then I relented. “Please just call the jail.”

I hung up to Jake’s melancholy howl.

I zipped the van down Interstate 70 to Saigon Carry-Out, ordered a batch of spring rolls, then crossed to Thirty-eighth Avenue and headed for Lutheran Hospital. Help me, Goldy, help me! That had been the pained cry from the best friend I’d ever had, as she was led away by two storm troopers. I tried not to think about her, tried not to imagine each situation she was going through down at the jail. Still, worries wormed into my mind. Oh, Marla, what are they saying I to you? Are they dressing your bruises and cuts? Are you taking your medications? Do you believe I’m trying to help you?

Once I was on the right floor of the hospital, it didn’t take long to find Macguire. A television advertisement for chain saws seemed to be emanating from a room with its door half open. But it was not the TV; Macguire’s roommate was snoring. When I tiptoed into the room, Macguire raised his head from the pillow and squinted at me. His face lit up with such delight that I refused to gasp at the thick bandage around his head and the gash running across one of his acne-scarred cheeks.

I whispered, “Oh, Macguire! Look at you!” I glanced at his dozing roommate. “How can you sleep with that racket?”

Macguire wrinkled his nose. “I’m used to it now. Afraid I won’t be able to sleep once I get back to Elk Park, it’ll be so quiet. Listen, did you find Marla? How’s she doing? How about Tony?” He sniffed. “Is that food? I’m starved. It feels as if all I eat here is oatmeal. Even if it’s beef stew, it tastes like oatmeal.”

I wheeled his bed tray over and opened up the bags of spring rolls. My appetite had mysteriously left me, but Macguire’s was certainly healthy. When I scraped a metal chair over to his bedside, the snorer rumbled, stirred, and flopped over. “Things are pretty bad,” I began, as Macguire dug into his second roll. I told him what had happened to Marla.

“Murder? Are you kidding?” Macguire exclaimed when I’d finished. He fell back on his pillow, then screeched, “Ouch!” He gaped at the ceiling. “That is just too far out. But Marla was beaten up? So … you think the same person hit me? But the cops think it was Marla? Marla wouldn’t hurt me, I mean, she likes me! Man, I guess I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Maybe so. Please, Macguire, you’re going to have to try to remember if you saw anything else that night. Marla needs you.”

Macguire pushed the food away and looked at the window, where fog nuzzled the glass like gray fur. His face crinkled in thought. “Okay,” he said, “there are a few things I’ve been thinking about, stuff I didn’t have time to tell you over the phone. It’s all kind of disconnected, but maybe you or Tom can make some sense out of it. Could you hand me my backpack, from that closet?”

I hauled out the ragged maroon knapsack while he reached for a pad of paper on his nightstand. Then I glanced at my watch: just past noon. Time was going by too quickly. I wondered if Marla had reached her lawyer yet.

“Do you remember Albert Lipscomb from the party?” I asked Macguire. “Is there any way you could have seen him at the campsite?”

“Yeah, I remember him from the party. Bald guy,” Macguire replied as he leafed through his wallet. “Naw, I didn’t see him. All I saw were Marla and Royce. But I did take pictures before it got dark up there. I probably shouldn’t have, it was sort of invading Marla’s privacy, I guess. I mean, nobody’s actually hired me to do surveillance. But I thought it would be such a great idea – “

“You took pictures?” I said sharply. “Where’s the camera? Where’s the film?”

“Well, you’re not going to believe this.” He hoisted himself back up and gingerly touched his swollen cheek. “But I’d taken pictures of Elk Park graduation on the first part of one roll. So I took a bunch of pictures to finish that roll. When I reloaded the camera I put the first roll in my backpack and locked it in my trunk. When I got hit, I lost the stupid camera! Anyway, I stumbled out onto the road with my backpack, and I was all hurt and bloody and everything, and that guy in the truck picked me up and drove me down here – “

I remembered De Groot’s rapid-fire questions of Marla on this point. I demanded, “What guy? Do you remember his name? What kind of truck was he driving.”

Macguire furrowed the small part of his brow that was visible beneath the bandage. “Jeez, Goldy, chill! He told me his name was Wilbur Webster. Wilbur drove a red Toyota pickup. I told him I had to leave my film at the drop box down on Thirty-second and Youngfield. I even wrote Rush on the envelope. Wilbur thought I was some kind of nut. He asked if I was a spy.” Macguire gave me a self-satisfied, goofy smile. “I said, ‘Yeah, man, I gotta have pictures of this high school graduation wicked bad.’ And Wilbur said, ‘Well, you better try not to get too much blood on the envelope, or the photo people will call the cops.’ ” Macguire dug into his pack and handed me a wrinkled yellow chit. “Here’s the receipt. The pictures might be ready by now. You can check that first roll out real closely, and see if, like, anyone else was at the campsite. Maybe I’m not such a bad investigator. Maybe Tom will want to hire me after all.”

I took the receipt and carefully slipped it into my pocket. It was worth picking up the film, although I doubted there would be something on those photos. “But… you didn’t see anybody else. Just Tony and Marla. And they weren’t fighting.”

“Yeah. No fighting. And they weren’t doing anything weird.” He blushed. “I mean, not that I would have watched, but I did hear a couple of things from Bitsy, including some kinky things about Tony Royce.”

“Macguire, hush!” I hissed. Then: “What are you talking about? Did you hear about the Las Vegas stripper?”

He readjusted himself in bed to get comfortable. “I’ll get to that part. You told me to ask Bitsy if there was anything else. Bitsy had lunch with Victoria Lear’s secretary, and they talked some more about the Eurydice IPO. The secretary said Victoria was a real go-getter, highly organized, had a tickler file and all that. According to the secretary, somebody got on Victoria’s case for jumping the gun on the initial public offering of stock for the Eurydice Gold Mine.”

“Go on.”

“Well. You know how Prospect made a lot of money on the Medigen IPO? Victoria explained to her secretary that Prospect claimed in the private placement prospectus for the Eurydice that they were going to take the mining venture public eventually. The implication was that that was how they would make their clients scads of money. So Victoria had just started on the paperwork, and then Victoria and some man had this real big fight. The two of them were yelling. Victoria Lear stormed out of her office, told her secretary she was going to tool around off-road so she could unwind. The secretary got a call to the front desk and didn’t see the guy who left Lear’s office. That was the last time anyone saw Victoria Lear alive.”

“Oh, Macguire, did the secretary say what it was they argued about? Had Victoria discovered something? Was it anything to do with assay reports?”

Macguire shook his head. “All the secretary remembers is that she heard Victoria yell something about World War Two.”

“Great.” I listened to the roommate’s violent snores, theft sighed. “You said there was something else?”

Macguire blushed. “This part is more like rumor. Hearsay. I mean, it’s pretty disgusting.”

“I think I can handle it.”

Macguire’s cheeks reddened. “Well, one day around Easter Mr. Royce asked Bitsy out for coffee, but Bitsy’s really into health food, so they went to get some tea at Alfalfa’s – ” He took one look at my impatient face and plunged on: “Anyway. Bitsy said Royce was kind of hitting on her, and she said it was a rush since he was like, the firm partner and all that. She was thinking maybe he’d give her a raise if they had sex. I mean, she wanted sexual harassment, if it would work for her. Do you believe that, in this day and age?”

“Macguire, in this day and age, I think I’d believe anything.”

“So before long they got to talking about whether it was lonely at the top. Pretty soon he was taking her out for herb tea just about every other day. Bitsy kept thinking they were, like, two steps from the sack. But then Royce confessed that he was looking for a certain kind of girl. The kind of girl he was looking for, well, he wanted to go out with a nurse, and did Bitsy have any friends who were in nursing school?”

“And did she?” Macguire eased himself up in the bedcovers. “Better than that, Bitsy found him a med student. A woman named Elissa who’d gone to Elk Park Prep and then C.U. It was Elissa’s first year at C.U. Med School. Bitsy said that Elissa and Royce started to have this very kinky relationship.”

“Bitsy told you all this?”

“Yeah. You know why she told me? Because she was so pissed that Tony never gave her anything, like a finder’s fee, or something. I mean, she fixed them up in the first place, is the way she saw it.”

I didn’t ask Macguire why Bitsy didn’t quit Prospect and just become a pimp, but I didn’t want to distract him from his story again. “So Tony was two-timing Marla and going out with this med student. Marla knew he had other girlfriends.” Did Eileen Tobey know? I wondered.

Macguire heaved out an exasperated sigh. “Well, if I knew about this, and I was his girlfriend, I’d have shoved him into that creek.”

“Marla knew he was dating around for a while, Macguire. This is old news. I just don’t understand why he wanted a nurse or med student.”

He took a sip of water. “That’s the weird part. She would do medical procedures on him before they… you know, did it.”

I closed my eyes, then opened them. “What kind of medical procedures?” I asked, keeping my voice even.

“According to Elissa, Tony wanted his blood pressure taken, and his pulse, and his temperature – you know, vital signs. Then she would listen to his chest, test his reflexes – “

“Macguire, please. That’s disgusting.”

He touched his bandage. “They got together every Wednesday. Royce would have a room in his house all prepared. I mean, examination table, stethoscope, latex gloves, cotton balls, alcohol, sterile needles, blood pressure cuff, test tubes, thermometers, on and on. Bitsy was really disgusted when Elissa told her all this. Bitsy said she would have pretended to be a nurse for him, except he wanted the genuine article.”

“So he had a medical fetish.”

“The last thing the med student did before they had sex was to take his temperature. Tony wanted to know if he was really hot.”

“Macguire, enough.”

“I told you it was kinky.”

“I’ll try to follow up on the IPO stuff, anyway.”

We were both aware that a change had come over the room. It was like a siren stopping beside the car behind you. First the siren squeals in your ears, then you get used to it, then you wonder what happened to it. With one movement, Macguire and I turned our heads toward the roommate’s bed.

A gray-haired man leaned up on one blue-pajamaed elbow in the bed. His eyes were wide and his mouth gaped. Perspiration beaded his forehead.

“Are you okay?” I asked anxiously.

He rasped, “Did she take his temperature orally or anally?”

Ten minutes later I had said good-bye to Macguire and was heading toward a hospital pay phone. I had less than five hours before the general was due at the house. Less than five hours to figure out what was going on, less than five hours before I went outside the law and tried to help Marla. I would need as much information as possible before that time came. I sat down in one of the lobby phone booths and tried to think.

Except for the goat scheme a couple of years ago, everything at Prospect Financial had been going well. Going well, that is, until the firm decided to put money into the Eurydice. And why had the firm decided to put three and a half mil into a mine that had been closed for decades? Because Albert had inherited both the place and the fervent belief that it was chock-a-block with gold ore. His enthusiasm had been empirically borne out by the geology and assay reports that he and Tony had commissioned. It hadn’t been difficult to be both promoter and investment company. With Medigen, Prospect Financial Partners had already proven they had the Midas touch, and thirty-five clients had been more than eager to put up a hundred thousand each to make another killing.

But then Chief Investment Officer Victoria Lear had died suddenly while working on the Eurydice IPO. Marla had found a discrepancy in the assays. Albert had disappeared with the investors’ money. Now Tony, too, was missing under suspicious circumstances. And Marla was being made the scapegoat.

Begin at the beginning, I thought. A month ago, Victoria Lear had been working on an initial public offering of stock for the mine venture. I punched the buttons for the Bank of Aspen Meadow and asked to speak with Eileen Tobey on a matter of great fiscal urgency.

“It’s your caterer,” I said breathlessly, when Eileen finally came on the line. “Just have a quick question, but it’s really, really important. What do you know about initial public offerings? What do you have to do to make one happen?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Goldy, I’m busy!” Eileen snapped. Then her voice changed. “Look, I’ve got an important meeting in five minutes. But… I heard a nasty rumor about our mutual friend, Marla Korman.”

“Really.” My heart hardened; bad news sure traveled fast in the high country. No matter how busy you were, apparently, meetings couldn’t proceed until people were up on their gossip.

Eileen’s voice was like syrup. “I’ll tell you what you want to know if you’ll tell me it’s true she knifed Tony Royce.”

“It’s not true,” I said emphatically. “But she is in jail. Now listen,” I plunged on before she could ask any more questions, “I don’t want to keep you, Eileen. If I were a venture capital firm, and I’d done a private placement and raised a bunch of money to reopen a mine, what would I have to do to take the venture public?”

“Hmm. I don’t suppose this has to do with a certain venture capital firm we all know and love?”

“Just tell me what I’d need for an IPO. Please,” I added.

She took a deep breath and assumed an authoritative tone. “Very simply, the firm would hand the whole thing over to an investment banker, who would, among other things, hire an independent auditor to check all the facts presented in the prospectus.”

“Like what kinds of facts?”

“Oh, that you were what you said you were. Say for a mine, you’d have to have the assays done by a reputable assay lab. You’d hire an independent mining consulting firm to go in and check your geology reports. Like that. It takes a long time and a lot of paperwork, Goldy. You have to spend months on an IPO. What are you getting at?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said, dejected. “It was just a long shot.”

I hung up and considered the narrow, smeared windows of the booth. I didn’t have a copy of the prospectus, so I had no idea who the geologist of record was, or how trustworthy his or her reports were. Then go to the next thing. What had Victoria Lear discovered? If the assays could be proven to be fraudulent, as Marla had suspected, then finding out who had ordered and paid for those glowing analyses of the Eurydice’s ore might offer something tangible. Maybe that was what Victoria had discovered. I certainly didn’t have a complete set of the assays, and I didn’t think anyone outside of the Prospect Financial offices did, either. But if I could find out who ordered them… it was a long shot, indeed. I dug out my credit calling card, phoned Nevada information, then the number for Kepler Assay Lab in Henderson.

“Ah, this is Kiki Belknap,” I said when the lab receptionist answered. “I’m Tony Royce’s secretary at Prospect Financial? Listen, Mr. Royce is out of the office at the moment? But I need to be connected to the first person he ever talked to down there –

“

“Miss Belknap,” the voice replied stiffly. “As you must be aware, discussion of assays is confidential. Information can only be released to the person originally requesting the assay.”

“And for the Eurydice Gold Mine in Idaho Springs,” I said breathlessly, “who exactly was that? We don’t seem to have it in our files.”

Kepler Assay Labs disconnected. I slammed down the phone. So much for long shots. The sheriffs department could get the information, but for that you needed a subpoena and all kinds of time. I glanced at my watch: 12:15. I didn’t have all kinds of time. And then I remembered what Marla had said to me a week ago. The mine was producing gold during the Second World War, and FDR had it closed down with that order of his, L-208… . I turned this over in my mind. L-208. I thought about executive orders, pushing the idea back and forth and over again, the way I kneaded bread. Then I replayed what Macguire had learned about some man at Prospect and his last conversation with Victoria Lear: They were arguing about World War II.

Shouldn’t there be public records about all this somewhere? Back to long shots.

I leafed through the phone book and called first the Colorado Department of Natural Resources, where I got switched to the Division of Minerals and Geology, which eventually transferred me to the Office of Active and Inactive Mines, where a very helpful person told me that I could find out a mine’s history by getting it pulled – for a fee – from the state archives. Imagining a football stadium full of red tape, I called the state archives.

“Hi there,” I said in a friendly voice when the archivist answered. “I’m wondering if I could get a quick look at the file on the Eurydice Mine in Clear Creek County. I need it this afternoon.”

“Oh, is that you, Ms. Lear?” the archivist said with a laugh. “I recognize your voice. But the last time you wanted a quick look at that file, you were here for an hour!”

My skin chilled to the bone. Now I knew whose voice mine resembled so closely it had scared Albert’s secretary. I replied, “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

I sprinted out to the parking lot and gunned the van toward Macguire’s photo place. While they were hunting for the roll of film, I put in a call to Tom.

“Have you found out anything?” I asked.

He sighed. “This guy Albert Lipscomb is bad. Want to know how bad? We just found the body of that bank teller he cozied up to last week. Dottie Quentin. She was supposed to be watching her neighbors’ place. Neighbors had a hot tub. The teller was strangled and then her body was placed in the hot tub with the wooden top on. The neighbors found her when they came back from vacation.”

“Oh, Lord.” The man with the pictures had returned. I said into the phone, “So what does all this mean?”

“It means Marla is lucky Albert, if that’s who it was, didn’t kill her. So far though, only a few people here seem to think Lipscomb would come back to settle a score with Tony and Marla. Killing the teller, that they could see, Albert didn’t want her to talk. But why come back?”

I said, “I don’t know. Maybe Albert and Tony are in on something together and are trying – successfully, as it turns out – to throw law enforcement off their trail. Have you found out anything about Marla?”

“Only that you were right. Shockley’s out for blood. Hers.”

I said I wasn’t surprised and signed off. I paid for the pictures and rushed back to my van, where I slid the envelope open.

Macguire’s graduation pictures showed joyful, silly, mugging faces of teenagers atypically dressed in blouses above long chiffon skirts and pristinely white shirts and striped ties. The first picture after the graduation batch was of Macguire’s scarred Subaru on a dirt road with pine trees in the background. I was willing to bet this was up by the Grizzly Creek campsite. Then Macguire had held the camera out to take a picture of himself swathed in a camouflage-cloth poncho. The rest of the photos were of Tony and Marla in the rain, busying themselves around the campsite. They’d pitched the tent on a mound. They’d lit the Sterno, heated and then eaten the soup I’d sent up. Then they’d hauled water out of the creek, cleaned up their dishes, and put the trash into the trunk of the Mercedes. This was all as Marla had reported.

I peered at the pictures of Tony. He wore an unzipped rain jacket, and under it, a sweatshirt with “University of – ,” but I couldn’t see the rest. It didn’t look as if he had the white monogrammed shirt on underneath the sweatshirt, but it was hard to tell with the fading light and the rain.

The next-to-last photo of the batch was a zoom-in on Marla and Tony’s faces. Tony seemed to be laughing at something Marla had said. Marla, with a look of intense irritation, was staring straight at the camera. In the last picture, Tony had reached over to hug Marla, a movement that exposed his right forearm and wrist. A glimmer of light had caught the movement on film.

He was wearing a gold watch.

15

As I exceeded the speed limits on my way to the state archives, I tried to convince myself that Tony was a rich enough dude to have two watches. But why would he have told Marla not to wear her own timepiece? Maybe it was just an issue of psychological control. He wanted to be the one telling time. Having been married to a doctor dedicated to psychological control, I knew the telltale signs.

Still, I thought as I accelerated the van toward downtown Denver, the fact that Tony was wearing a gold watch at the campsite made things look doubly bad for Marla. I was glad that I, and not the police, had Macguire’s photographs.

I parked in front of the dull-looking government building, pushed through the vaultlike door to the basement archives, turned a corner, and arrived in a large, well-lit room with two desks, several long tables, a couple of rooms with microfilm machines, and row upon row of stacks. The smiling, frizzy-haired woman identified herself as the archivist. She asked me for three dollars for file retrieval of records for the Eurydice Gold Mine in Clear Creek County, then gave me a puzzled look.

“Goodness,” she trilled, “you’re not who I thought, you were. You sounded just like someone else on the phone. So friendly! But so much in a hurry!”

“Victoria Lear’s my friend,” I lied. “I know she’s very thorough, but always quite rushed. A good businesswoman, though, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” the archivist replied noncommittally, as another patron had shown up at the desk. I knew questions concerning Victoria Lear’s visits to the archives would be fruitless. Colorado librarians take patron confidentiality as seriously as priests do the seal of confession. The frizzy-haired librarian directed me to sit at one of the long tables, and I acquiesced. At least I had received a vital piece of information: Victoria had been here.

When the archivist brought me the legal-length file with its typed tab: EURYDICE-CLEAR CREEK, I felt a wave of panic. What was I looking for, and how would I know it when I found it? Could I see what Victoria had seen? A grandfather clock standing by a near wall said two o’clock. I ordered myself to get going.

Something related to World War II. That was what the argument between Victoria and someone at Prospect had been about. I flipped to the beginning of the file and perused an inspection report from 1915: At present the work is confined to driving a crosscut to cut the Jack vein. I read another from 1918: I secured the samples you asked for and will bring them to Denver tomorrow. In 1922, the mine produced 161.8 tons of gold ore, and employed ten people. In 1930 an inspector indicated the character of ore as Gold, Silver, Lead, Zinc. In 1931, a new inspector noted that there was No fire protection and that the mine was not producing: Their objective is to sink the shaft deeper and get under the ore. In 1937, the same inspector stated: The gold and silver ore has played out. There is a large quantity of lead-zinc ore, and mining this on a small scale is their current objective. But by 1944, production of lead at the Eurydice was in full swing, owing to the demand for bullets and resulting good prices for lead. Then in 1947, the mine was inspected and stated to be Closed because of the falling price of lead, now that the war is over. There are no stockpiles. No ore has been sent to a mill or sold in the last year. No staff except a night watchman.

Wait a minute. I flipped back to the beginning and read through the stack of inspection reports. In the twenties the mine had been producing gold at a good clip. Then the precious metal ore came to an end, and the mine produced lead. There was no mention of Executive Order L-208. The mine had never closed during the Second World War, because the gold at the Eurydice had played out in the 1930’s.

Victoria Lear had been eager to get started on the initial public offering of stock in the Eurydice Mine. She’d started looking at documentation that someone wasn’t prepared for her to see. The information in front of me had been her death warrant.

A light rain misted the windshield as I coaxed my van up Interstate 70. Red sparks-brake lights of vehicles ahead-appeared and disappeared through the haze. It was like driving through a dream. I slowed the van and tried to get my racing mind to do the same.