Fatally Flaky gbcm-15

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “You know we’ve tentatively linked Finn’s death with Jack’s? That’s partly owing to the note Jack wrote you. It’s not much of a link, but it’s a link.”

  “So…did the pathologist confirm that the heart attack was directly caused by Jack being attacked?”

  Tom shook his head. “The connection isn’t certain. But given the head trauma that Jack did experience, it’s clear that someone tried to kill him out at the spa, and almost succeeded. Well, did succeed, in the end, because he just died later.” Tom narrowed his eyes at me. “You all right?”

  “Fine. But the person who attacked Jack couldn’t have counted on Jack having a heart attack in the hospital from his injuries.”

  “Exactly.”

  It took me a second to understand what Tom was implying, and when I did, it chilled me to the bone. “The call Doc Finn received the night he was murdered came from within Southwest Hospital. Are you saying that someone in the hospital might have…helped Jack to have a heart attack? Might have poisoned him or…?”

  “It’s obviously a possibility. Jack had a history of heart disease and he’d been badly injured, but the heart attack was still very sudden. Even closely monitored the way he was, we can’t rule out tampering. So the pathologist is checking everything in Jack’s system against the meds he was taking for his heart condition. Those meds, by the way, were in his house.”

  “Right,” I said. “And remember, Lucas was already inside the house when I used Jack’s keys to get in. So maybe he planted something, or took something away.”

  “We’ve talked to him, again. He says he didn’t touch anything, and we can check his house, if we want. You don’t like Lucas, do you?”

  My shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure he’s a killer. But he’s like the cousin you never really got along with, the cousin you suspected was trashing your toys and stealing from your mother’s purse, but you could never prove anything.”

  Tom grinned. “Your professional psychiatric opinion, no doubt.”

  I shrugged. “What else have you found out?”

  “Nothing. These tests take a bit of time, you know, Goldy, even when you’re doing things on an expedited schedule, which we are.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I can’t think of what to do.”

  Tom knew better than to tell me to do nothing. He said, “I’ll tell you how you can help. We have all the technical expertise, the teams going out talking to witnesses, the labs doing their tests. But what you’re particularly good at is dissecting…people’s relationships. It’s not the how that’s really stumping us here, although we’re working on that. It’s the why. You want to help? Bring that intellect to bear on the reasons somebody or somebodies would want these two guys…to be gone.”

  I exhaled so disconsolately that I knew Tom sensed my frustration. Finn had stuck his nose into some kind of hornets’ nest and had dragged Jack into it behind him. Had it been very odd, or even criminal, activities performed by Victor Lane at the spa, or an entirely different problem? I felt no closer to an answer than I’d been when I woke up Monday morning and learned of Jack’s death.

  Tom looked around the kitchen with a thoughtful gaze. “You want to cook?”

  I was so startled by his suggestion that I actually laughed. It was already after ten, and I had to get up at five. But Tom knew what would make me feel better—apart from shenanigans in the shower, that is.

  Thirty minutes later, Tom had finished the dishes, and I’d made the same chocolate cookies I’d made the other day. They were so flaky, the first one I made broke off in my mouth. Hmm. While Tom was putting the dishes away, I decided not to spoon ice cream into the middle. Instead, I whipped together a buttery, extra-creamy vanilla frosting, and spread it between two of the cookies. Yum! Tom agreed.

  I would give—not sell—the resulting cookie sandwiches to any person who presented herself at the spa kitchen’s back door the next evening.

  “I can’t believe you’re making those for these spa guests who are trying to lose weight,” Tom commented.

  “Boyd was right beside me,” I said defensively, “when the lady wanting the treats approached us on the path.”

  “Sort of like getting drugs in rehab.”

  “That’s what I told Boyd.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, Tom was in a deep slumber beside me, and I should have been fast asleep, too. But this was one of those times when, despite my physical exhaustion, my mind was wide awake. Too wide.

  You failed Jack, my hyped-up brain accused. He wanted you to figure something out, and you’re not doing it.

  I’m trying, some other part of my brain protested.

  Not hard enough.

  Finally, I gave up on sleep and crept down to the kitchen. What did the accusatory voice in my head expect me to do? Since that voice was now resolutely silent, I made myself another Summertime Special. What the hell, I had to get up in five hours anyway, why not just stay up all night?

  I moved restlessly around the kitchen, picking up a cup here, checking my knives there. Something was indeed niggling at the back of my mind now, but what?

  It was something I’d said to Tom. When I used the keys to get into Jack’s house…

  I rummaged around in the living room until I found the ring of keys Jack had wanted me to take, as well as the crumpled paper with Jack’s scribbled notes: “Gold. Fin. Keys.”

  What was I missing? I sipped my coffee, and turned over Jack’s keys, which jingled in my hand. The key to his house was there, plus the key to his car, which as far as I knew was still out at the spa. Maybe the cops had impounded the car and were searching it. Tom hadn’t mentioned anything about that. There were keys to I-knew-not-what. Jack’s liquor cabinet? A storage compartment I didn’t know about? Maybe I should have given Tom these damn keys.

  I turned over one, a smaller one, then turned it back. On one side were the initials amcc. On the other was a letter and a number: m-71.

  Omigosh, my golly, I thought. The brand-new golf clubs had been in Jack’s living room, along with the old-new travel clock. But Jack eschewed clocks, and he had constantly complained that his bursitis had made it impossible for him to keep playing golf. I was having the clock examined and dissected, but I’d practically forgotten about the stupid golf clubs.

  I glanced at the key again. It didn’t belong to a liquor cabinet and it certainly wouldn’t open a storage container. The key was from the Aspen Meadow Country Club, the AMCC.

  Jack had given me the keys, I was willing to bet, and set up the clubs in his living room, in case something happened to him. He had safeguarded something, I had no idea what, and he’d wanted me to figure it out—a final puzzle for his godchild. That was why he’d given me the keys. He’d put what ever he wanted me to find in locker number 71, on the men’s side of the changing rooms at the country club.

  I didn’t stop to think. Aspen Meadow Country Club served fancy dinners and offered dancing until two in the morning. The dining room did not close any particular night, Marla had told me, because members were required to eat there five times a month. I knew some of my clients found this requirement onerous, but then they’d reluctantly bought the diamonds and dresses to make it all possible.

  If I went back upstairs, I’d awaken Tom, and I definitely didn’t want to do that. I’d already put another change of clothes in the van, which was in the driveway. I wrote Tom a note: “Gone to Aspen Meadow Country Club, back by three.” Then I disarmed the house’s security system, grabbed my purse and Jack’s and my keys, and was off.

  IN THE PARKING lot of the AMCC, I changed into my catering uniform, which I hoped looked similar enough to the club’s servers’ uniforms for me to fit in. The parking lot was, dishearteningly, less than a quarter full. I certainly hoped the cars belonged to patrons, and not just worker bees.

  I came in through the kitchen, where a couple of long-suffering workers were washing pots and pans and speaking in Spanish.

  I said, “Busco los clientes,” which I hoped m
eant that I was looking for the clients, and not, I’m searching for my long-lost parents. I’d once asked the male manager of a Spanish grocery store, “¿Tiene huevos?” Which I thought meant “Do you have eggs?” but instead meant, “Do you have balls?” and not the the kind you bounce around on the playground. I never went back.

  But one of the dishwashers nodded and said merely, “Allá.” He pointed in the direction of the dining room, the location of which I knew very well. I nodded my thanks and took off through the kitchen doors. But instead of heading upstairs toward the dining room, from which some waltz music was playing too loudly, I headed downstairs, to the darkened locker rooms.

  When I got to the side marked men, I opened the door, which creaked ominously. I called, “Hello? Maid service?” When no one answered, I turned on the overhead lights, which flickered gray, and then finally came on. I made my way cautiously inside.

  I was gripping Jack’s keys so hard that my palms were beginning to sweat. The locker numbers danced in front of my eyes, a function, no doubt, of my extreme fatigue. I told myself to relax, I’d be in bed soon enough, and I’d have the satisfaction of knowing what Jack and Doc Finn had been up to. That thought gave me a pop of energy, and I slowly began to peruse the lockers until I found number 71.

  No sooner had I put the key in the lock than I heard the locker room door creak open. I cursed silently, and for once wished that I had Boyd back by my side to protect me.

  “Maid service!” I called loudly. “We’ll be done cleaning in here in fifteen minutes! Can you come back, please?”

  To my very great relief, the door creaked back closed. Probably some inebriated fart had wandered away from his wife. He’d gotten confused and figured it was time to play golf.

  I tried to downplay paranoid thoughts that I had been followed. No way, I told myself. What, was someone parked outside our house, ready to follow my van in the middle of the night?

  I certainly hoped not.

  I swallowed hard and turned the key in the lock. Just get what ever it is and get out, I told myself. Go back through the kitchen, where the dishwashing staff will still be at work. I’d ask one of them to accompany me back to my car. Would my crappy Spanish yield me the right phrases? Well, one problem at a time.

  I opened locker M-71. I don’t know what I was expecting, but a single piece of paper was not it. The writing was old-fashioned, not Jack’s.

  O’Neal—dehydration

  Parker—thyroid

  Druckman—rotator cuff

  Foster, White, Katchadourian—Symptoms of addiction withdrawal. All were told they were stressed out, should go back for a week or more. Once there, they said, they felt better. Home two days, more symptoms of withdrawal. Again told to go to back. Etc.

  I reread the paper. Symptoms of withdrawal? From what? They should go back for a week or more? Go back where? To Gold Gulch Spa? And what were Foster, White, and Katchadourian, none of whom I knew, withdrawing from? From the stuff in the fruit cocktail? From the smoothies? From something I had taken out of the Smoothie Cabin?

  I wanted to scream at heaven: The next time you leave me a puzzle, Jack, make the solution clearer, won’t you?

  I heard nothing but silence.

  23

  I tucked Jack’s keys and the paper into my pocket and walked quickly, watchfully, back to the kitchen. I saw no one, and the band in the dining room was playing “Good Night, Ladies,” the cue that the dancers’ evening was winding down.

  One of the workers kindly accompanied me to my van. My spotty memory of Spanish yielded up the phrase, “Tengo miedo.” I’m afraid. Which I was. Alone, in the men’s locker room, in a country club I didn’t belong to, in the middle of the night, trying to figure out why someone had killed a kindly doctor and attacked my godfather so brutally he’d died of a heart attack? You bet your bippy I was full of miedo.

  With the wiry Hispanic man there to protect me, I looked cautiously around the parking lot: were any of these cars new since my arrival? I couldn’t tell. I thanked the worker, then offered him ten dollars as a tip, which he proudly declined. I thanked him again and hoped I hadn’t offended him. Some cultural walls take time to hurdle, and my brain was too mushy to learn what ever lesson was being offered. I jumped into the van and raced home.

  There were some cars out on the road, but it was hard to tell if anyone was following me. I didn’t think so, and no one turned up our narrow road off Main Street. Still, I was massively relieved when I slouched into our kitchen. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised to find Tom at our table, a glass of scotch in front of him.

  “You needed to play nine holes of golf in the middle of the night?”

  “I just didn’t want to wake you—”

  “You could have at least taken your cell phone,” he said mildly, turning his green eyes in my direction. “Turned it on, too, in case your nervous husband woke up, didn’t find you, but found this cryptic note about you waking up with a sudden desire to mix with the country-club set.”

  “I wasn’t mixing with anyone, I was getting this.” I handed him the paper and explained its provenance. I didn’t tell him about my fear that someone might have followed me, then come into the locker room while I was there.

  “I want you to give me Jack’s keys right now.” Tom held out his hand. “No excuses, and no more late-night ideas for investigating. You’re not rational.”

  “Oh, don’t pull that logical argument—,” I began.

  Tom held up his hand. “Enough, Miss G. I also need that paper. I’ll make a copy for you.” And off he went to the basement, where he kept his office equipment.

  So, at just after three in the morning, Tom wordlessly handed me a duplicate of the scrawled note from the golf club locker. When we finally climbed into bed, I was grateful Tom hadn’t bawled me out more than he had.

  WHEN THE ALARM went off at five, I thought I was going to die. Or maybe I was already dead. I slapped it, reset it for seven for Tom, and then went slowly through my yoga routine. Both my insides and outsides felt covered with grit, so I took a quick shower. Then I made my way down to the kitchen, fixed myself a quadruple espresso, and sat down to think.

  I missed Jack. His absence was like an ache. If he had stayed in New Jersey, if he had never moved here this year, then I wouldn’t have known what it was like to have my beloved godfather so close by, wouldn’t have known how much fun it would be to renew a relationship that had meant everything to me when I was young.

  Yes, I missed him.

  I knew enough psychology to be aware that one ignored one’s feelings at one’s peril. But beyond acknowledging that yeah, okay, I was sad, what was I supposed to do? This was not the first time I’d reflected that academic psychology departments were long on analysis and short on advice. And in the long run, what did people need, analysis of their problems, or advice on how to fix them?

  Well, I needed the latter, I thought as I pulled another four shots and dumped them over cream and ice. And then I felt another tug on my heart, because if there was one person who’d offered me support and advice in copious quantities, whenever I’d wanted or needed either, it was Jack Carmichael.

  This line of thought wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I looked at my copy of the paper I’d pulled from men’s locker number 71 at the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn’t. But as feeling depressed worked quite a bit less well for me than a quest for meaningfulness, I chose the latter.

  This note did mean something; Jack had left it for me. Maybe he’d felt someone closing in, and left the piece of paper in the golf club locker as an insurance policy. But the problem with an insurance policy is that you have to understand it in order to get anything out of it.

  The handwriting was unfamiliar. I had known that Todd Druckman had had a rotator cuff injury. But my calendar announced all too unfortunately that the Druckmans were off on their fishing trip in Montana. Todd had woefully told Arch that his mother had strictly forbidden the tak
ing of any cell phones into the backcountry. You’d have thought she’d told him he couldn’t have any food or water either.

  I glanced at the clock: quarter past five. If I was going to fulfill my duties out at Gold Gulch Spa, I had to get cracking. I glanced back at the list, with its puzzle demanding a solution.

  I called Julian, who was already on his way over from Boulder. Could he fix high-protein vegetable frittatas this morning, for sixty-one clients at Gold Gulch Spa? I’d pay him well, I assured him.

  “Oh, boss,” Julian said, relieved. “You bet. Victor says absolutely no fresh fruit, but I bought fresh vegetables at the farmers’ market day before yesterday. I put them into bags to bring to the spa, just in case I could find a way to serve them. I can stop and pick up cheese and cream, too.”

  “I’ll be there by lunchtime,” I said. “Think you can handle it? Yolanda said there were plenty of foodstuffs, and the menus and recipes are there in her computer. You don’t have to follow her recipes exactly.”

  “No problem,” he said confidently. “I’ll do my own Summertime Frittata. If you have any issues, call me through the spa switchboard, okay? I can’t get cell reception out there to save my life.”

  “Absolutely. And thanks.”

  “Before you hang up,” Julian said, at once awkward and shy, “tell me, what’s going on?”

  I gave him a brief summary of my evening’s ramblings, and the list in front of me. He whistled. I asked him if any of the names sounded familiar to him, and he said, except for Druckman and O’Neal, no, sorry. We signed off and agreed I’d be out at Gold Gulch no later than eleven.

  Next I punched in the numbers for Boyd’s cell phone. He picked up on the first ring, and was oh-so-relieved not to have to do guard duty this morning. We arranged to meet at the spa at eleven, in time to prepare the lunch.