“The presence of good and evil,” he replied, his eyes fixed on the altar. “You’re feeling the conflict. Unresolved.”
Somehow, we got through it. In John Richard’s will, he’d designated an old doctor friend to take care of the funeral arrangements. Payment for the funeral was supposed to come out of John Richard’s estate—which I doubted was very large. But the doc had bought the coffin and made all the arrangements, so at least there was enough money for that. I’d have to leave worry about Arch’s high school tuition to another day.
Arch had said he did not want to attend a graveside ceremony, which I honored. I didn’t even know where John Richard would be laid to rest, nor did I care. The Jerk was most emphatically not my problem anymore.
When Marla asked if we were staying for the reception, Arch, Tom, and I declined. Sandee’s Rainbow pals were taking her off to party, Marla said. When I ran outside to see if I could catch Ruby Drake, she was gone.
Arch, Tom, and I went home in my van. Yes, I was a passenger in my vehicle. But it felt as if I’d been run over by it. I asked Arch what he wanted to eat for dinner, and he said he’d been invited to Todd’s for dinner and to spend the night, then Todd would take him to the party the next day. Didn’t I remember him telling me all this?
I did not. But I told him it was fine. He clomped upstairs and began throwing clothes and hockey equipment into a bag. By the time Eileen Druckman showed up to take him, I had left a long message for Detective Blackridge, telling him about the fake pearls at the end of John Richard’s driveway. I asked if he had questioned Ruby Drake. And had he gotten Tom’s message about Nan’s confession? Then I hung up.
I ran myself a hot bath and got in to soak. Tom insisted we get into pajamas—it was not yet five o’clock—and enjoy the ultimate comfort food: grilled-cheese sandwiches. He’d rented a lighthearted comedy set in Italy. I laughed and felt my spirits lift. By eight o’clock, we’d taken care of the dishes and the animals, and were snuggling in bed.
By quarter-past eight Tom was making slow, tender love to me. The gate to my soul swung open, and Tom’s love flowed in. He kissed me over and over, saying, “You are the greatest gift I have ever received.” He caressed my belly and thighs and said, “I will never cause you pain.” When it was over, he held me tight and whispered, “I will love you forever and ever.”
And then, finally, I began to sob.
Saturday morning we awoke to the sound of sirens. The smell of smoke was even thicker than it had been the day before. I coughed as I let the animals out. I revved up the fans, closed all the windows, and turned on the radio. The fire in the wildlife preserve had expanded to three thousand acres and was only 20 percent contained. They still hadn’t found the missing hikers. More firefighters had been called up from Colorado Springs and Pueblo, and we would be hearing those trucks arriving all day.
In the kitchen, I felt at loose ends. I still had no idea as to what had happened to John Richard—who had killed him and why. Was money involved? I wasn’t at all sure. And what about the clipping of the hair and all the other incongruous things found at the crime scene? Either the detectives weren’t getting anywhere or they weren’t keeping Boyd in the loop. I drank an espresso doused with cream. No Arch, no catering event, no amateur sleuthing? I couldn’t think of what to do with myself.
Cook anyway, my inner voice commanded. And so I did.
I checked my file. There was one pie crust recipe I hadn’t yet tried with the strawberry filling. An old standby, it featured unsalted butter and lard cut into flour and salt, then mixed with the smallest amount of ice water possible. Thank goodness for food processors, I thought as the blade cut the butter into the dry ingredients. When it was time for the lard, I scooped out the snowy white stuff and wondered, again, why it wasn’t in more recipes. Okay, it was fat, but so was butter. And the addition of lard to baked goods made them incomparably flaky.
And then there was Beef Wellington, where the placement of lardons helped keep the tenderloin juicy and moist. Yes, lard could be—
Wait a minute. When we said a dish was larded with fat, it was because there was so much of it. The implication was that “larding” meant “putting in lots of layers.”
But what else could you lard with layers? How about a crime scene? What if you planted Goldy Schulz’s gun there, for example? Wouldn’t that point to Goldy as the killer? And when the coroner found the victim’s hair cut—could it be for a trophy, or could it be used for a DNA test? How about dropping fake pearls? Was that meant to point to someone, or was it meant to point away from someone else? If the cops also found a pink tennis-ball gun silencer, how would they know whether the killer dropped it by accident or on purpose?
Larding. That’s what I was doing with the pie crust, whirling bits of fat that, when melted, would make the crust flaky and crisp. But if you larded a crime scene with lots of items, responsibility for the crime could point in any number of directions. If you were patient, gathering up your fake clues, then saw an opportunity to steal a gun or two, you could set up the whole thing, do the deed, and the puzzle would occupy the cops for weeks. Or months. Or maybe forever.
Tom came into the kitchen wearing navy slacks and a pale yellow polo shirt. He looked hot. Remembering the previous night, I got tingly all over.
“And where,” I asked, “are you going, looking so spiffy?”
“Breakfast with Boyd. Then down to the department. Not too many folks there on Saturday. I want to see some of the guys. Clean up my desk. Get going again.”
I smiled and gave him a tight hug. “Enjoy.”
He took off. I sat on our back deck with my double shot of espresso, thinking. If you changed just one thing that had been presented as fact in this whole crime, everything would drop into place. What might that fact be? I had an idea of who could be behind all this planning and plotting, not to mention execution, in both senses of the word. But I had to be sure.
The Aspen Meadow Public Library opened at ten on Saturday mornings. Kids of all ages congregated outside the glass doors, some to do research for homework, some to use the library computers to get online, some to go to the weekly story hour with their mothers. We were all coughing and hacking in the smoky air. Discussion of the fire’s progress dominated conversations. I waited with the kids and their mothers, not saying anything. I couldn’t preoccupy myself with the fire, because I was focused on the one piece of information I needed. Then I would be sure.
We poured through the door on the dot of ten. I made a beeline for the “Locals in Armed Services” photo display. Then I studied the blown-up photograph. After a while, I went to the reference desk and asked for all their books on Greek architecture, and Aspen Meadow High School yearbooks from four and five years ago.
Within twenty-five minutes, I had my answer. She’d lost some weight, had some plastic surgery on her nose, maybe when she got her boob job. She’d changed her haircut and color. And she’d managed to fool all of us, even her own mother. She’d even hoodwinked the fellow who prided himself on being so smart: Dr. John Richard Korman, whom she’d set out to ensnare even while he was still in jail.
I raced back to the van and called Tom on his cell. No luck. Was he out of range? Had he left the phone in his sedan when he met Boyd at their breakfast eatery? I left a voice-mail message: This time I’m sure. Call me back ASAP. Just for good measure, I called Boyd. No answer there, either. I cursed the phone, banged it on the dashboard, then put in a call to the sheriff’s department. Finally, finally I got Reilly.
“Listen, it’s Goldy Schulz,” I gasped. “I think I know who might have killed John Richard. Dr. Korman.”
Detective Reilly had become cordial, if not exactly warm, since the cops had discovered that my gun had not killed John Richard, that I hadn’t trashed his house, and that I’d known nothing about John Richard producing a love child with Talitha Vikarios. But Reilly did sigh when he heard my dramatic announcement about zeroing in on the killer. With forced patience, he said, “
I’m listening, Mrs. Schulz. What did you find out?”
I summarized what I knew about Alexandra Brisbane, her terrible history, and what I believed was her motive for revenge. Then again, someone or someones close to her might have done the deed. I outlined how she, he, or they could have entrapped John Richard and gotten him into the money-laundering business, hoping he would start skimming…which was where the hundred and eight thou had come from. The murderer had hoped that John Richard would be killed for the skimming, as his predecessor, Quentin Drake, had been. And when John Richard escaped punishment, someone took matters into his or her own hands. Which is why the money launderers had shown up later and trashed John Richard’s house. They wanted their cash back.
“Okay, Mrs. Schulz, slow down,” Reilly said. “What data are you using to come to these conclusions?”
“The fact that the real Parthenon, its marble remains in ruins, is in Athens, Greece. And the Parthenon made from dun-colored stone is in Nashville, Tennessee.”
“Run that by me again?”
“Alexandra Brisbane sent her mother, Cecelia Brisbane, a picture of herself in front of the Parthenon in Nashville. She said she was in the navy—never mind that no ships deploy out of Tennessee—because Alexandra didn’t want her mother to know where she was. In addition, the photo was taken before Alexandra had shed fifteen or so pounds, had plastic surgery on her nose and boobs, and cut and curled her hair and dyed it platinum.”
“I’m still not—”
“Alexandra Brisbane is Sandee Blue.”
“What? Are you sure?” Reilly’s voice was doubtful. “I mean, Cecelia was at that Kerr funeral lunch, and Sandee Blue was there with your ex. Don’t you think Cecelia would have recognized her own daughter?”
“Not with her poor eyesight, and all those physical changes to her daughter.”
“But…Alexandra was from Aspen Meadow. What about her high school friends who could have recognized her?”
I was ready for this. “At the library, I looked up Alexandra in the Aspen Meadow High yearbooks from four and five years ago. Besides her chubby-cheeked, mousy-haired class picture, there were photos of her in the Explorers’ Club, beside Raccoon Creek, Cowboy Cliff, you name it. But she looked like a jock, not a stripper. Plus, she’s now working at the Rainbow Men’s Club. How many former back-country explorers do you suppose hang out there? I should add, Sandee has a very jealous boyfriend, Bobby Calhoun, otherwise known as Nashville Bobby. He has a Ruger that was supposedly stolen—”
“Okay, okay, we know that. Look, this is good information. Thanks. We’ve already radioed up to the fire chief that we want to question Calhoun as soon as they can spare him from the fire. The chief begged me not to take him off his line right now. And I’ll consult with Blackridge to see about bringing Sandee in for questioning.”
“But that’s not enough—”
“Mrs. Schulz, please. I can’t promise you anything. A lot of leads in this case have gone nowhere—”
“Like what?”
He exhaled. “Okay, how about Ted and Ginger Vikarios went straight from the Albert Kerr memorial lunch to a church meeting that lasted five hours? A handful of people claim the Vikarioses never left.”
“Please believe me, Detective. I know I’m right this time.”
“I understand, Mrs. Schulz. And we’re going to follow up, I swear. But I’ll tell you what we don’t want. We don’t want you questioning Sandee Blue. We don’t want you going to the Rainbow Men’s Club or anywhere else that could be dangerous. And by the way, your husband would say the same thing. Want me to go get him and put him on the phone with you? I think he just got back with Boyd.”
“No, thanks. I just feel so…nervous, knowing that Sandee and Bobby are out there somewhere—”
“Please, Mrs. Schulz. You have concerns, call your lawyer. All right? I need to go now.”
After I’d closed the phone, a cloud of worry descended on me. What if Sandee or Bobby tried to frame me further? They didn’t know that the cops had picked up all the money from the safe-deposit box…what if they tried to get the key out of Arch?
I put the van in gear and started toward Lakewood. I’d tried to solve this crime, first because I was implicated, and second, for Arch. For closure. But would it be so good for Arch to know his father had been killed because he’d raped a teenage girl? I thought not. Especially since I believed that that woman or her cohort, or cohorts, had also killed her own mother, probably because Cecelia hadn’t protected Alex from her own father. Was I crazy, or could all this be true? No matter what, we were talking about a very traumatized and disturbed individual or individuals. I certainly wasn’t going to try to catch the killer. If the cops didn’t want to follow up on my theories, then that was their problem.
But I’d promised not to go looking for trouble. And besides, I wanted to check on Arch. I’d never seen him skate for more than five minutes, anyway. He was such a good kid, and he’d been doing so much better since the school change, that he deserved some TLC…maybe a new outfit or lunch out after the game. Besides, I missed him.
The Lakewood rink was so mobbed with screaming kids that I thought my eardrums were going to pop. The lobby was teeming with boys in hockey gear and girls in figure-skating leotards and tights. Kids hollered at the desk attendant for locker keys and rental skates. Arch was nowhere in sight. I don’t think I would have recognized him right off, not in a helmet and all those pads, anyway. I made my way to rink side and watched the skaters whizzing past. Finally I picked out a jersey that said “Druckman.” The next time Todd shot by, I called to him to stop. This he did. He clomped, red-faced and sweaty, over the thick rubber padding to the spot where I stood.
“Where’s Arch?” I asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere and I can’t find him. I wanted to see him skate.”
“He’s gone!” Todd replied. “Somebody came to get him. The guy at the front desk might know who picked him up.”
I shrieked all the way to the lobby.
21
I unfolded the note with trembling hands. I cursed myself for not bringing Arch down here myself, for not figuring out the solution to John Richard’s murder before that trip to the library. I tried to read, but the words swam.
Bring JRK’s money to the Roundhouse at noon. Then you’ll get your kid back. No cops. You screw this up, your son gets dumped in the preserve, right next to the fire.
The note was unsigned. It was half-past eleven. I jumped into the van and headed back up the mountain. I put in a frantic call to Tom. One to Boyd. Another one to Reilly. Nobody was answering. I called the department dispatcher. My son had been kidnapped, I yelped, and I needed as many units as they could spare to hightail it to the Roundhouse, in Aspen Meadow….
She told me to calm down, she’d see what she could do. Meanwhile, I pressed the pedal and hit I-70 going eighty miles per hour. Maybe if a state trooper picked me up on his radar, I could get him to follow me. I willed the cell to ring. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed as I flew up the interstate, my horn blaring. The engine whined as I took the exit ramp at sixty miles per hour.
Oh, how I cursed myself for trusting her. That sweet act, anybody could be taken in. And had been. When are you going to play hockey, Arch? And my son so politely answering: Tomorrow morning, in Lakewood.
I flew through Aspen Meadow to the Roundhouse. No one there, either. It was five after noon.
I kept going up Upper Cottonwood Creek Road, toward the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. Toward the fire. Please let Arch be all right, I prayed.
The smoke became extremely thick halfway up the road. I was going to keep driving until a cop or fireman stopped me. Five miles up, I was flagged down. The road was covered with orange cones.
“You can’t go in there, lady,” a uniformed fireman informed me. He had a long, lined face and wavy gray hair matted to his egg-shaped head.
“Please help me,” I begged. “Somebody has kidnapped my child and said they’re going up
to the fire. Maybe to meet someone, I don’t know.”
“Meet who?”
“Bobby Calhoun? Please, my son’s life is in danger!”
The fireman consulted a clipboard. “Bobby Calhoun has been up with his line for the last forty-eight hours, lady. I would have known if he’d—”
“If you don’t let me through,” I screamed, “I’m going to drive right through these cones!”
“All right, all right. I’ll lead you to the base camp for Calhoun’s line. It’s up by Cherokee Pass.”
He strode purposefully to his fire-department pickup. A moment later I was following him along one of the dirt roads that led into the preserve. I began to cough from the smoke. My eyes smarted as I squinted to make out the pickup’s rear lights. I closed all the van windows and pressed a button for the air to recirculate.
Was I right? Was Sandee driving Arch up to the fire? Had Arch told her the safety-deposit box was empty? Was she going to dump Arch, get Bobby, and then the two of them would take off together? How far did she think they’d get?
The fireman turned off onto a bumpy one-lane fire road lined with singed grass. I held my breath and prayed as the van groaned into the turn. Then I pressed the gas as gently as possible. The wheels lurched suddenly as I hit a small ditch. Somehow I managed to negotiate the ditch without vaulting the van onto the blackened grass.
Was the smoke turning orange, or was that my imagination? And was that snow falling or bits of ash?
Arch, Arch, I mouthed silently, my heart thudding. Be safe. Let me find you.
The fireman turned on his left signal and I followed. A ragtag row of pickup trucks were just visible through the heavy haze. The fireman parked and jumped out of his vehicle, with me close on his heels.
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