Outside, I heard Tom’s Chrysler crunching along the gravel toward our detached garage. Impatience raced up my spine.
“Frances,” I demanded, “what are you talking about?”
“Goldy,” she cooed, “did you ever wonder where John Richard got the fifty-thousand-dollar down payment for your little house? The same house you got in the divorce settlement?”
My entire body went cold. “He told me his parents gave it to him for graduating from medical school.”
“I don’t think so,” Frances replied. “They may have given him a cash sum, but he squirreled it away somewhere, or spent it on his girlfriends, or whatever. A little birdie told me that for the down payment on your house, Dr. John Richard Korman borrowed fifty Gs from his old friend Dr. Ted Vikarios.”
“I don’t believe it,” I snapped. “Who’s the little birdie?”
“Actually,” she said with the tiniest shade of uncertainty, “that particular factoid came from an anonymous tip on my voice mail.”
“From a man or a woman?”
“Couldn’t tell. So are you going to confirm or deny?”
“Deny. Emphatically.” But still, I felt as if I’d been punched. Fifty thousand dollars? John Richard might have incurred a debt I’d never even heard of? To some people who were now bankrupt? Was this before or after he supposedly raped a teenager? Outside, Tom and Arch called to each other and shuffled their equipment out of the car and toward the house. Another wave of chills enveloped my body. “Did Ted Vikarios keep some documentation of this loan?”
“Nope,” Frances replied. “At least, not according to Holly Kerr.”
“Did Holly Kerr confirm the fact of the loan, Frances?”
“Well, actually,” Frances admitted, “she just said if there was a loan, it was a gentleman’s agreement.”
“You’re telling me Holly Kerr agreed to be interviewed by you?”
“Not exactly. But my Jeep made mincemeat of that driveway of hers, and I can camp out on somebody else’s porch as easily as I can camp out on yours.” She chuckled.
I shook my head. If I hadn’t been afraid it would get into the papers, I would have said, Frances, sometimes you can be a first-class bitch.
“All right,” Frances went on blithely, “think about this. The Vikarioses’ financial woes began at about the same time that your ex-husband started downhill, moneywise. And then of course he had those bothersome trips to jail. But all of a sudden, his sentence was commuted. And he had a big argument with Ted Vikarios, or at least a heated discussion, right before you and Korman went at it. Sort of puts that last conflict with your ex into better perspective, doesn’t it? Him flying off the handle at you all of a sudden…seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?”
Tom and Arch were punching the numbers on the deck-door security box and peering in. “No, Frances,” I replied. “It wasn’t a bit odd. In fact, him flying off the handle at me all of a sudden was the entire problem of John Richard’s and my relationship. In a nutshell.”
“Of course,” she said slyly, “maybe you did know about the loan and its lack of documentation. Then you’d have had even more reason to shoot—”
“Look, I need to go,” I lied. “If I find out anything, I’ll call you.”
While she was still squawking, I hung up. Her quid, in addition to being unsettling, hadn’t made much sense. Besides implying that I would have had further motive to kill John Richard, was she saying it was possible that Ted Vikarios, unable to extract fifty Gs on the spot from John Richard—after not seeing him for nigh on fifteen years—had driven over to his house and shot him? Whatever chance Ted Vikarios would have had of extracting cash from the Jerk would have been extinguished with those shots in the garage.
When Tom and Arch traipsed through the door, I immediately knew that something was wrong. Tom’s look was hooded. Arch’s hair was matted to his head; his face was flushed, streaked, and glossy with sweat.
Arch nodded and acknowledged me with a “Hi, Mom! How’re you doing?” that was way, way too enthusiastic. “Check it out! Tom bought me a new hockey stick I’ve been wanting! And a jersey, too!” He bounced past, mumbling something about needing a shower.
Wait a minute. Stick? Jersey? I glanced after him, but he was gone.
“Couldn’t get a tee time?” I said lightly to Tom, who was washing his hands at the sink.
“Oh, we got a tee time, all right,” Tom replied.
“But the two of you changed your minds?”
As if thinking over his answer, Tom said nothing. He began calmly fitting candles into crystal candlesticks for the table. Eventually he lowered himself, somewhat wearily, into a kitchen chair. Finally he gave me the full benefit of his sea-green eyes.
“I have news for you. Arch cannot play golf. He doesn’t even know how to hold a club.”
“But that can’t be,” I protested. “He’s been playing twice a week with John Richard for the last month. John Richard hired the pro to work with Arch—”
Tom’s look was even and steady. “I don’t think so. Your son didn’t tell me what he and his father were doing those two afternoons a week. But I can tell you this. Arch has never played golf in his life.”
My fragile relationship with Arch at that particular juncture, i.e., right after the violent death of his father, did not permit me to interrogate him on the subject of what, exactly, he and John Richard had been doing every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for the last month. When we came together at the candlelit dinner table at half-past seven, I thought I’d wait until we were all eating before posing any questions.
A sudden wind brought the temperature down twenty-five degrees, perfect Mediterranean- and Mexican-food weather. When I placed Trudy’s hot, juicy chicken platter next to the steaming enchilada pie, Arch and Tom dug in with enthusiasm. The chicken was succulent and not too spicy. The Mexican-pie mélange of beef, garlic, onions, refried beans, and hot sauces also featured corn chips and enough melted cheese to smother Pancho Villa’s entire army. I’d set out a bowl of rice and dishes of sliced fresh tomatoes and avocados, chopped lettuce and scallions, and a mountain of snowy sour cream. If nothing else, ice hockey did have a way of cranking up the appetite.
“Arch,” I began, “I was wondering—”
But Tom warned me off immediately with one of his He’ll talk when he’s ready looks. Arch gave me a studiously blank stare. If he wanted to discuss his father, the funeral, or anything else, he gave no indication. When the plates were empty, I asked if anyone wanted strawberry-cream pie. Both Tom and Arch groaned and said that they were too full. And then Arch scraped back his chair and asked to be excused. When I acquiesced, he mumbled, “Thanks, Mom,” and took off for his room.
“I know he’s trying to be polite,” I commented to Tom as we cleared the table. “But not only is Arch withholding evidence, he’s going back into the infamous adolescent shell.”
Tom put down a pile of dishes and gathered me into a hug. “We talked a lot this afternoon. He’s torn up, all right.” He kissed my neck and held me tighter. “Miss G., I’m more worried about you. I pulled out the trash container, and saw it was filled with glass shards. What’s that about?”
“Rage. I have a lot to tell you.”
He let go of me. “Rage about what?”
I gave him the executive summary of the morning: the strip club, Lana, the bleeding bald man left on Marla’s car. Then I told him about the afternoon: seeing Holly, encountering the reporters, pie-slapping Mannis. Afterward, I’d broken a few jars in anger, yes. And then I’d read the notes from Cecelia Brisbane. Tom had listened this far without comment, but he held up a hand.
“Stop. Do you have these notes now?”
“You’ll be happy to know that I turned them over to Detective Blackridge. But I did make copies,” I added. I pulled out the copies I’d made of the notes, and again was thankful that Tom had given me a small photocopying machine for my birthday.
“Oh, my Lord,” Tom said, shaking his head. He pu
t down the copies and gave me a hard look. “Do you think it’s true?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. Someone is or was trying to frame me for John Richard’s death. And now, all of a sudden, stories about him start surfacing.”
“Are there other stories!” Tom asked.
I told him that Frances Markasian might have unearthed an old debt, to the tune of fifty thou. According to an anonymous source who’d called Frances, Dr. Ted Vikarios had loaned the Jerk the down payment on this very house in which we now found ourselves. The same source said the Jerk had never paid it back. Ted and John Richard had argued outside the Roundhouse, Frances’s theory went, because the Jerk refused to cough up the funds. The implication was that this debt had given Ted the motive to fire a couple of bullets into the Jerk.
To my surprise, Tom laughed, a wonderful long, rumbling guffaw that made the dishes on the counter shake.
“I’m so glad to provide humor for you so soon after my ex-husband has been shot to death.”
Tom wiped his eyes. “Miss G., you’re trying too hard to get into the head of too many suspects. That is a very dangerous place to be. Don’t get into the mind of a killer, either. It’ll make you crazy.”
“I appreciate the pep talk, Hannibal. May I say good night to my son now?”
When I knocked on Arch’s door, I couldn’t tell if he was talking on the phone or if the radio was on. He called, “Just a minute,” immediately ceased the conversation or broadcast, shuffled around a bit, and then invited me in.
He was sitting up in bed, knees to his bare chest, writing in his journal. The lamp on the desk beside his bed was switched on. His window was open, and a cool breeze filled the room. He glanced at me, then at the wall opposite his bed.
“Yes, Mom?”
“I just wanted to say good night.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“Sweetheart, please.” I gripped the door. “You know the cops suspect that I had something to do with your father’s death. But you were right there with me. You know I didn’t shoot him. So…could you please tell me what you and your dad were doing two afternoons a week for the last month?”
He glanced at his desk. In the poker world, this is known as a tell. He said, “Nothing. I mean, well, I can’t.”
I ignored the desk. “May I give you a quick hug, hon?”
After a moment, he pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me a long look. “Sure. Just, please, you know. Don’t start crying.”
I briskly crossed the room, awkwardly placed my arms around his neck, and hugged his head. I managed this without tears, for which I was thankful.
“See you in the morning.” I released him before he could pull away.
He placed his glasses on his nightstand, closed his window, and snapped off his light. Then he scooted underneath his sheet. I didn’t see what he’d done with the journal—I would never read it or go through his desk, I’d have gone to jail first—but I did notice that he still had the black-and-gold quilt. He pulled it up around his ears, then turned away from me.
“When you leave,” his muffled voice said, “could you please close the door?”
14
Thursday morning I awoke to birds squawking, chirping, and singing their way through their June mating ritual. The only thing that bothered me was that this louder-than-usual cacophony started soon after four A.M. I had dreamed of nothing, for which I was thankful. Tom’s warm arms were still holding me. I didn’t want to move, and yet the merry avian racket and chilly air sweeping through the room made additional slumber impossible.
I eased out of bed, tiptoed across the cold floor, and peered outside. The hail had finally coaxed out a spurt of late spring growth. Leaves clothing the aspens’ bone-white branches had opened from tightly closed fists to a chartreuse cloud. Periwinkle columbines bobbed along our sidewalk. Pearl-white anemones floated above the mulch that Tom had lovingly patted into place in front of our house. Even the lush native chokecherries between the houses seemed to have doubled their blossoms. The profusion of tube-shaped blooms gave off a sweet, heady scent. A fat robin hopped along the curb where the reporters had beaten their retreat.
I moved through a slow yoga routine. Yes, my body still ached, but getting the circulation going would offer more healing than any visit to the doctor. After breathing and stretching, I showered and put on a cotton shirt, shorts, sweatpants, and zippered sweats jacket. The morning was very cool—right at fifty degrees, according to the outside thermometer—but food preparation would have me shedding layers before long. Still, who cared? Come to think of it, why was I in such a good mood all of a sudden?
I frowned. Wait a minute: the windows. The lovely breeze was flowing into our bedroom because Tom had left the window cracked. For the first time since I’d had the security system installed, Tom had turned it off. A lightness filled my head and a buzzing invaded my ears. With John Richard dead, would we really, truly not need the system anymore?
No, wait. We would need it, at least until my attacker and the Jerk’s murderer were apprehended. Maybe Tom had thought we’d all be fine for one night, with him at home to protect us. Maybe he’d forgotten to set the system. I breathed in another lungful of fresh air and closed the window.
In the kitchen, I brought myself back to reality with a double espresso poured over steamed half-and-half. There was the troubling matter of figuring out who had sabotaged my food and attacked me outside the Roundhouse. When we figured out who had done that, maybe we’d be able to sleep with the doors open.
I booted up my computer and printed out the list of food preparation for that morning. First up was the PosteriTREE committee breakfast. After splitting from the garden club, I wondered why they didn’t call themselves the Splinter Group.
I checked on the vanilla yogurt: It had drained and left behind a thick, smooth, custardlike mass. I whipped a mountain of cream, folded it into the yogurt, and set the soft mixture back in the refrigerator to chill. Then I trimmed and chopped peaches, nectarines, and strawberries to layer with the yogurt mixture in crystal parfait glasses when I arrived at the country club.
With the fruit chopped, wrapped, and chilling, I checked my watch: 5:50. Would Marla be awake yet? Probably not. I desperately wanted the chance to visit with her away from the ever-eavesdropping ladies of the tree-planting committee, but if I phoned too early, her wrath would outweigh her desire to share gossip. I sighed. Next on the agenda was the croissants, and I was debating whether to fix those at home or put them together in the country-club kitchen while the quiches were heating. I couldn’t decide, so I switched computer files from “Committee Breakfast” to “JRK.”
Quickly, I typed in my new questions: Is independent confirmation available that JRK raped a teenage girl? If so, then who was the girl, and when did this happen? Did Ted Vikarios loan John Richard 50K for the down payment on this house, and never get it back? Are these two stories meant to throw the cops off the scent of the real killer? And then there was: What in the world was Arch doing with John Richard for the last month, when they were supposed to be playing golf?
If it was too early to call Marla, it was certainly too early to call the Vikarioses. And besides, what would I say to them? Did my ex-husband betray you, too? And by the way, did you shoot him? I fixed myself another espresso and stared at the computer screen. Poor Holly Kerr. Who knew how much she’d told Frances Markasian, just to get rid of her?
I switched back to the problem with the croissants. As all caterers knew, How does it look? is the number one issue in food service. How does it taste? is number three. With the croissants, I was face-to-face with number two, to wit: How does it hold up? This was a general problem with breakfast and brunch food, but since complaining and worrying only makes the caterer’s job seem longer and more frustrating, I set to work chopping the scallions and artichoke hearts, slicing the croissants, whisking together the crab-mayonnaise mixture, and melting the butter for the delicate crumb-herb topping. If these delectable open-face
d sandwiches couldn’t be totally assembled in advance, I decided, then I’d just do the last-minute work in the club kitchen.
And speaking of assembling things, I wondered, just where were the cops in their investigation? The rule of thumb in law enforcement was that murders that were not solved within twenty-four hours generally went unsolved. And yet here we were, at thirty-six hours.
Neither detective had told me a thing. Blackridge had been downright hostile. Tom had announced that Sergeant Boyd would be meeting me at the Roundhouse, and then we would drive to the club together. Boyd would be staying with me through both catered events today. He even wanted to help with the catering! I heartily disliked the idea of a chaperone, but Tom had been insistent. The upside was that Boyd might have new information. The key word there was might.
Meanwhile, once Julian arrived, Tom’s plan to keep Arch busy included picking up Todd Druckman and taking the three of them to one of Denver’s giant public pools. I’ve always felt that those pools, which feature wave-making machines and gargantuan slides, are meant to make kids puke up their hot dogs, chips, and milk shakes. That way, parents are forced to buy twice the amount of overpriced food than they would have anyway. But Tom had ordered me to not worry about what I couldn’t control. After the pool, Julian would come to help me with the picnic, while Tom saw what else Arch and Todd wanted to do. Bless Tom. What would we do without him?
My stomach growled. It was six-fifteen and I hadn’t had anything but coffee. I couldn’t look at the croissants and yogurt. Here again, though, I was saved by Tom.
“Oh, Miss G., do I have a surprise for you.” He swaggered into the kitchen with a sudden confidence that I hadn’t seen for a while. He wore a black polo shirt and khaki pants, and looked utterly spiffy. “I did a very, very big shopping yesterday. Please sit down.”
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