Arch asked for the phone and I gladly handed it over. “Julian’s back,” he told his father, who could not possibly have cared less. But Arch talked on, undaunted, about summer vacation, playing with Todd, things he and Jake had done. Finally I relieved him of the phone; we were at twenty-eight minutes, thank God.
“See you next week,” I began.
“How’s Marla holding up?” John Richard demanded, his face again flattened with a smirk.
I was noncommittal. The Jerk could use information in twisted and cruel ways, I had learned. “Fine. Why do you ask?”
He only laughed and hung up the phone.
Before leaving, I asked if I could see Cameron Burr. The desk sergeant told me Burr had just started a visit with his lawyer, and was unavailable. I scribbled a note to be delivered to Cameron, with our phone number and begging him to call. But I knew he wouldn’t. Suspended or no, Tom represented the forces that had put Cameron behind bars; Cameron’s lawyer would tell him not to contact us.
When we started back up the mountain, the air was warm, the sky increasingly hazy. I rolled down the window. John Richard’s manner at the end of our visit still rankled.
“Does your dad know that Marla is being audited?” I asked my son.
Arch looked out the window. “I guess.”
I had heard the entire content of John Richard’s last two visits with Arch; no mention had been made of Marla’s troubles with the IRS. As John Richard’s new factotum, Hugh Leland might be aware of what was going on. But how then would Arch know that his father was aware of the audit?
“What do you mean, you guess? Dad told you he knew Marla was going through this IRS thing?”
He hesitated. “Well, don’t tell Marla I told you, okay?”
I sighed. “He didn’t do anything illegal, did he?”
“Oh, no. But when Dad was having financial problems last spring, the HMO’s not paying him his money and stuff, he had this idea of how to make money. I don’t think he knows that I know. I was supposed to be watching TV in his condo, but there was nothing on. When I turned it off, I overheard Dad telling one of his friends about the IRS paying a big reward to whoever turns in a tax cheater. Dad told his friend that Marla was the richest person he knew, and he was going to squeal on her to the IRS. I just thought it was a joke.” He shook his head. “I feel bad telling you, because he’s my dad and all. But I love Marla. I know it’s been awfully hard on her. Sometimes I just think Dad gets sort of like, carried away.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking. It would have exposed Arch to very bad language.
The next morning, Julian, Tom, Arch, and I went to the early service at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. I called Marla to see if she wanted us to come pick her up; she said she was having severe IRS-produced indigestion and couldn’t move from her bed. Given the circumstances, I decided against telling her about The Jerk’s hand in her current troubles. Julian had made some hazelnut-caramel rolls—Marla’s favorite—that he was eager to offer for tasting at the coffee hour. I didn’t tell her about them, either.
As the congregation began to read the Forty-sixth Psalm—God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble—I realized that I craved very present help in a very big way. A friend of ours was in jail; Tom had been suspended; my business was in danger. Compounding these problems were the facts that our living-space was in an uproar and we were teetering on the brink of insolvency.
The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold. I prayed for Cameron and Barbara Burr. Without warning, I felt the weight of my ongoing resentment of our dead kitchen contractor. When people hurt you, it’s hard to let them go, no matter how they end up. But as my Sunday School class often reminded me, God will always take somebody in, even when they’re dead. Right, Mrs. Schulz?
I conjured up the bloated face of Gerald Eliot hanging between the sun room studs, and silently let him go.
“I’m sorry to put you through all this,” I told Tom that night as I pulled two loaves of homemade sandwich bread out of the oven. At my request, and in view of my continuing inability to talk to Cameron, Tom had spent an hour trying to find out about the evidence collected at Burr’s home. No one was available to chat about missing cookbooks, so Tom had vowed to go ask Boyd some questions the next day, suspension or no.
Instead of banging about in the wreckage we called our kitchen, Tom had thoughtfully spent the afternoon working on his plans in the basement so we could prepare for the morgue lunch the next day. With Julian’s help, I’d stewed a chicken, seared a London broil—both would go into the following days’ salads—made vichyssoise and a huge salad of barely steamed vegetables that would chill overnight and be lightly dressed with a raspberry vinaigrette the next morning. Tom received a test bowl of the delectable, chive-scented vichyssoise and pronounced it superb.
Before going to bed, I tried to check in with André. Pru’s caregiver said André had done a great deal of cooking this evening and was already asleep. She promised to ask him to call.
Monday morning dawned bright and cool. I chopped tarragon, celery, and pecans to combine with the moist, flavorful chicken pieces, then sliced the beef into thin wedges and mixed it with a spicy vinaigrette. At seven, Julian joined me and mixed flour with yeast and buttermilk to make hot rolls to go with the salads. Arch took off for another walk with Jake. Tom announced he was going for his breakfast with Boyd, where he hoped to hear about the latest Andy Fuller shenanigans. Julian and I were happily engaged in our work until just past ten o’clock, when the phone rang. I scooped it up and gave my business greeting.
“This is Dr. Sheila O’Connor, the coroner. Goldy—” Her voice cracked.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I replied calmly. At the last minute, clients often fear the caterer will forget to show up. “Don’t panic. I’m just putting it all together.”
She cleared her throat. “We have a body with only a tentative identification.”
I made wrapping motions to Julian and pointed to the salads on the counter. “So do you want me later—”
“This … man had no driver’s license, performed no military service,” Sheila said. After wrapping the salads, Julian pointed to the cardboard boxes; I nodded. “We don’t have any fingerprints. There aren’t any dental records.” I exhaled and watched Julian fold in the cardboard flaps. Sheila continued, “And his next of kin can’t do the ID we need. On the body, I mean. This man’s wife—widow—is blind.”
The floor under my feet shifted. I stumbled toward a chair and sat down. I whispered, “What?”
“Goldy, we need you here at the morgue. To identify the body,” Sheila repeated. “We believe the dead man’s your teacher, André Hibbard.”
Chapter 11
“Pru.” I was clutching the phone so hard my fingers hurt. “His wife. Where is she?”
“She felt she had to come down here, and she’s on her way. Her nurse is bringing her.” Sheila’s voice had become businesslike. “Goldy, I’m terribly sorry to have to ask you to help us. Nobody here seemed to know who else to call.”
“You’re not sure it’s André.”
“We’re pretty sure.” No hesitation. “The arriving crew found him in the Merciful Migrations cabin kitchen this morning. Looks as if he had a massive coronary.”
“A heart attack,” I said dully.
“We won’t know until the autopsy is done. But we can’t do what we need to do until a family member or someone who knew him well identifies the body.” She paused. “Please forgive me. Usually we use fingerprints or dental records or a relative, but none of those are available. His wife said to call you, that you lived nearby and used to work for him.”
“I’m sure there’s been a mistake. When I get there, I can clear it up.”
Sheila hesitated. “Is Tom there?”
“No. Just this … a young man who works for us.”
Sheila said, “Please come, Goldy. I can explain what we know once you get here.”
“No, I … no.”
His dark eyes searched my face. “Look, Goldy, if the booking fell through, I can take this food to Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach. We’ll find some more jobs. Come on.” He ran water into a glass and set it on the table in front of me. “Come on. Drink this. I’m going to call Tom.”
“He’s … having breakfast. With Boyd.”
“No, no, actually he isn’t. That’s just where he wants you to think he is.” Julian hesitated. “Look, don’t get mad at him, okay? He’s having a polygraph today. About the conflict he’s having with that assistant district attorney who thinks he knows everything.”
I stared at the water glass. A polygraph. Tom didn’t think he could tell me.
“André … my teacher. He’s dead, Julian. He had a heart attack. They need me to come down to the morgue.” I gripped my old oak table. This was just a mistake. A stupid error.
Julian snagged the cellular phone from its charger, stuffed it into his pocket, and assumed a calm, pastoral tone. “I’ll pack the Rover and then honk from the driveway.”
When he beeped not long afterward, I numbly walked outside. This is just a stupid error, I kept telling myself. It’s not André. There’s been an awful mistake.
Less than an hour later, I took a deep breath and prayed for strength as Dr. O’Connor led frail, bent Pru Hibbard, her nurse, and me down the hall to the morgue’s work area. Pru wore a faded pink cashmere sweater and matching skirt, along with a strand of pearls that matched her hair. Her caregiver, a waxy-skinned, thin-lipped older woman with broad shoulders and short, dark hair, nodded at me.
“I’m Wanda Cooney.” Her voice was clear but low. “We can talk more later.”
The four of us walked through the door toward where I was to do the ID. Dr. O’Connor drew back a curtain on metal rings.
I swallowed. There hadn’t been a mistake.
André’s body was covered to the shoulders with a sheet. His cheeks were no longer pink, but gray. The small portion of his white shirt that showed was cruddy with dust. His silvery hair was matted.
“Yes.” My voice sounded like someone else’s. “It is André Hibbard.” I turned to Pru. “Are you all right?”
Pru’s watery blue eyes wandered around the makeshift cubicle. Her lower lip trembled. She said, “I want to go.” Without waiting for me to respond, Wanda slowly guided Pru away.
I turned back to look at André’s immobile face, then at Sheila. “Can’t you tell me anything more about what happened?”
“We needed the ID first.” She moved away from the gurney. “You should go back to the other room.”
“Not yet. Please, tell me something, Sheila. What was he doing when he had the attack? Was he alone?”
“Rufus Driggle called us,” Sheila murmured. “André had phoned to see if he could come early to do some prep work. Driggle opened the gate for the taxi at seven. Driggle didn’t stay because he had to go into Denver for film. When he came back at nine, he found André on the kitchen floor. When he couldn’t rouse him, he phoned the sheriff’s department.”
I touched the sheet. “How did André get so dirty? His clothes? His apron?”
“From falling on a floor, Goldy.” She cocked her head. “Mrs. Hibbard confirms he had a history of heart problems, that that’s why he quit the restaurant. He was on Lanoxin, to amplify his heartbeat. We’ll get his medical file, see if his condition has been worsening lately.”
André. I swallowed. “This past Friday he had some symptoms while he was at the Homestead, where he was catering. The paramedics came out and gave him a clean bill of health. André swore to me that he was fine.” I shook my head; I should have insisted on catering with him today instead of taking the morgue lunch booking. “He was sixty-five. Vigorous, but—” I stopped, transfixed by something I hadn’t seen earlier. I pointed toward André’s hand. “What’s this?”
Sheila leaned in closer. “A burn?”
“No. No way.”
Sheila peered at the curved, inch-long mark on the back of André’s left: hand. “Yeah, it’s a burn. Recent.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “Time to go, Goldy.”
I stared at the mark on André’s hand. “But,” I protested, “there’s nothing out at that cabin that he could have burned himself on. I mean, not that looked like that.”
Sheila sighed.
I stared at Andre’s right hand, motionless on the gurney. “What’s this?”
Sheila O’Connor reached into her pocket, retrieved a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped them on. She picked up the hand I was pointing to. On the side of the other hand, there was another, smaller dark spot.
“Another burn, looks like. He was a cook, Goldy. You have to trust us. We haven’t started to do our work here yet…. He could have burned himself just before or while he was having the attack. People lose control during a coronary.”
I was having trouble breathing. “Sheila—”
“The department is already doing a sweep of the cabin.”
“Can you give me the autopsy results?”
She snorted. “You must be joking.”
“He was my teacher, Sheila.”
“Let’s go.” Her voice was increasingly chilly, and I wondered if she was afraid I was going to get hysterical on her.
“I need to go help Pru,” I replied. “André would want me to be with her. But I’m not going anywhere until you promise to call me.”
She tsked. “Have Tom give me a ring in a couple of days.” She took my arm. “Right now, you and I are going to the lunchroom.”
We came through the opaque glass door to the brightly wallpapered lunchroom. A sudden noisy wash of people engaged in conversation made me reel back. Sheila murmured something about going to her office and left my side.
My mind seemed to splinter; I observed that Julian had done a superb job serving lunch. The salad platters were littered with shreds of lettuce and crushed cherry tomatoes; the roll baskets were forlornly empty. The morgue staff was digging into their dessert. Julian was chatting with two older women. When he saw me, he left them and walked quietly to my side.
“Well?” When I nodded that yes, it was André, he said, “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. You did a nice job here. But … I need to help Pru now.”
“I called Tom at the department. He offered to pick me up with all the equipment. I thought … you might want my car. But now I’m worried about you driving.”
“I just need some coffee, please, Julian. And maybe a glass of water. I have to help Pru,” I repeated, as if giving that help would structure my next few hours and make things clear. How could André—so full of life and mischief—be gone?
Julian brought me water and coffee and handed me his keys. I mumbled a thanks. “Goldy. Are you sure you can drive?”
I sipped the dark coffee; it tasted like ashes. “Yes, I think so. Where did the rest of them—Pru, Sheila—where did they go?”
He rummaged in one of the boxes, pulled out my purse, and handed it to me. “They’re talking in the office. The Rover’s on the far east side of the parking lot, remember? I’ll meet you back at home.”
I waved at the detritus on the lunchroom table. “But—”
“Go.”
In the office waiting area, Sheila O’Connor talked quietly with Wanda Cooney. Another morgue staff person was shuffling papers and asking Pru questions. Pru, seated next to the desk, mumbled answers. The gist of their conversation had to do with Pru not being able to see and therefore not being able to sign the necessary papers. The papers were being sent on to an attorney. Wanda acknowledged my arrival with a nod, then walked over to attend Pru.
Sheila O’Connor told us: “We’ll release the body for burial in three or four days. There’s a committee at St. Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church in Aspen Meadow that helps with
a memorial service or funeral arrangements when the spouse or family can’t.”
Pru’s voice rose, tremulous. “Goldy? Are you there? You were his favorite.”
I went over to Pru’s side and leaned down to embrace her. “Let’s go back to your place. You should be home.”
Sheila motioned me over for a last message. “Tom called. He wanted to know if you’d prefer to wait for him.” When I bit the inside of my lip and didn’t reply, Sheila added, “I promised I’d call him back, if you want to leave right away.”
“Tell him I’ll meet him at home in a couple of hours. Tell him I’ll be fine—not to worry.”
I headed west in Julian’s black Range Rover behind Wanda Cooney’s dull green Suburban. Overhead, the sun shone briefly between mushrooming gray clouds. One of our summer thunderstorms was brewing. The half of my brain still operating logically recalled that the drive to the Blue Spruce condo would take forty-five minutes. Time to focus on Pru, whom I barely knew, despite my long friendship with André.
But I could not. I ground the gears and felt my mind shift from rationality to despair. André dead. It wasn’t possible.
Raindrops spattered across the windshield. The wipers scraped noisily over the glass as the van crested the interstate; the Continental Divide, thickly shrouded in mist, came into view. A heart attack. Two burns.
Tongues of lightning flicked above the near mountains as we turned into Aspen Meadow. At the turnoff to Blue Spruce, I glanced down Main Street. Stupid, unexpected worries about the tasting party the following day loomed. How would I gather supplies? When would I manage to finish the cooking? How could the packing and serving get pulled together? Julian will do it, I told myself. Thank God for Julian.
Water splatted on the glass and I turned on my lights. Beside the road, Cottonwood Creek gushed and foamed. A memory of André trying dinner menus appeared from nowhere. He would always offer the cooking staff dishes laden with possibilities: cranberry-glazed pork with sweet potato pudding; seared steak Hong Kong with creamy risotto; poached Dover sole nestled in steamed artichokes and hollandaise. He would concentrate intently as he drizzled blackberry sauce over a spill of crepes, then have me taste as he meticulously wrote out times for prepping and cooking. He would cap his pen and say, “Now, Goldy. All is well?”
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