The general took long strides over the rocks ahead of me. For all his extra weight and unhealthy look, Bo was hiking without effort. Behind us, our dark-haired guard, who clearly could have won a speed-walking race to Vail, easily kept pace with us. After about a quarter mile of this torture, the general decided to ask, “So, how is everybody, Goldy? Arch? Julian? Tom? You didn’t invite me to your wedding,” he said accusingly.
Yes, I panted. I got … married. What was I supposed to do, send him an invitation in jail? “Arch is fine. Has a new dog.” Another mile of this, and I’d be dead.
“I heard. And Marla, how is she? I sent her flowers when she had the heart attack… .”
“Fine.” My own heart was pounding. Would he send me flowers if I collapsed? “Everybody’s great. Marla’s got a boyfriend. He’s with that firm you’ve invested in “
“I know, I know, that’s why I invested in it, so I could see her sometime. I would love to get together with her, Goldy, if you could arrange it,” the general interrupted, his tone very serious. “When I was in prison all I could think about was reconnecting with Marla. She’s my only connection to my dear Adele… .”
My shins were on fire. Ahead, the trees thinned to reveal a grassy area. To the left, a sudden view of overcast sky indicated that we were on the edge of an overlook. In the distance, I could hear roaring water.
“Please,” I panted, “let’s… stop.”
“Keep going,” was the barely audible command from our dark-haired companion.
Oh, marvelous. I fastened my eyes on the ground, put one foot in front of the other, up, up, up, and tried to think about energy, white light, and running the bases in softball when I was ten. These did not help.
“Look, let’s take a break,” the general said finally. He stopped and put his hands on his hips. “It’ll be okay,” he told the guard. “Let’s go to where we can see the creek. It’s across from the spot where we’ve been doing some testing “
“Not a good idea, sir,” countered the guard. “There’s a full moon…”
Bo gave him the ice-blue gaze I knew of old. “I don’t think we’re in any danger.” The guard looked away. I guess Bo got whatever he wanted from everybody. And why should a full moon matter, anyway?
We threaded through the trees until we reached the rocky overlook. Water roared close by. Where were we? I held out both arms to keep my balance as I teetered between granite boulders the size of elephants. I inadvertently stepped into a mud puddle and quickly hopped out. The ridge lay ten yards ahead.
Thunder cracked overhead. Or was it an explosion nearby? To my astonishment, the earth seemed to be moving, crumbling under my feet. The enormous rocks on either side of us skewed sideways.
“Rock slide!” the guard cried as he vaulted back. I swerved instinctively and caught a glimpse of General Farquhar’s grim face. I grabbed his large hand and we leapt. I cried out to him, but my voice was lost in the clamor of exploding earth.
Together we somehow scrambled in the direction we’d come. The deafening noise of snapping trees filled the air. Behind us, rocks thundered on their way downhill. Move, move fast, I commanded my feet. Instead, I slid in deep mud. Mud, mud, everywhere. And rocks. My hand held tight to General Bo’s. We both bounded up, up over rocks and cracking earth. A final fast hurdle brought us onto solid, but still shaking ground. We fell down, gasping. Miraculously, we had been on the very edge of the slide. Thank God. Another five feet forward, and we could have been killed.
How much time had gone by? Ten seconds? I shivered uncontrollably. Beside me, the general winced and cursed softly. I glanced back. Where we had been standing was air.
“General Farquhar, sir!” our guard shouted. The general croaked a response. The guard appeared from within a stand of pine trees. There was mud on his face and uniform. He pulled out a radio and began hollering into it. There was another reverberating ka-boom: A last boulder tumbled into the stream. The same stream that had so treacherously undercut the bank we’d been climbing, no doubt. Again I cursed my own idiocy. After all my warnings to Tom about being careful on the trail! I shuddered. The radio crackled and a high, excited voice showered the brand-new silence with coded questions that sounded like Alpha Bravo Charlie, et cetera, ten four.
The guard spoke into his radio, then told us to stay still, HQ would be bringing a stretcher. Very, very carefully, I touched Bo’s left leg. He cried out with pain.
“It’s just a sprain,” he insisted. He looked appreciatively at the guard. “I should have listened to you.”
The guard turned his glittering dark eyes on me. “During a full moon,” he explained to me in a curt tone which indicated that every moron already knew what I didn’t, “the lunar gravitational pull acts on rocks in the continental crust the way it does on the ocean. Rocks rise in a tide, up to a foot. Plus we’ve had all this rain, and we’re working with explosives nearby, which makes the entire area, especially above a stream, unstable.” He shrugged.
I was soggy with rain and slick with mud. What I needed was a long hot bath and this guy was giving me a geology lesson. I murmured, “Good Lord.”
“The full moon adds to the earth’s instability,” our guide concluded knowledgeably.
So does explosives testing, I added silently.
A four-wheel-drive vehicle cracked through the undergrowth. The two camo-suited men I’d seen earlier hauled out a stretcher and loaded a protesting General Bo onto it. Then we all climbed into the all-terrain makeshift ambulance.
When we got back to the compound, Bo didn’t ask me to stay, which was fine with me. He was in a great deal of pain and needed attention. And as I said, I needed a bath.
“Call us,” I urged. “Let us know how you are.”
“The ankle will be fine,” said Bo with a rueful smile. His voice turned pleading. “But Goldy, could you please have Marla call me? I want to talk to her about the Eurydice Gold Mine, about any old environmental studies that have been done of that area. Also, I’m wondering about this guy who did the geological study that their ore projections are based on. I’m too tied up to look into these details myself. Would you get her to call?”
“I’ll try.”
He studied my anxious, filthy face. Chocolate cookies, a military compound, weird people, explosives nearby, and a rock slide. Normal excitement for him, maybe, but not for me. His look became indulgent. “Poor Goldy. Ready to go back to Aspen Meadow and your kitchen?”
I decided not to reply.
8
As my van splashed home, I had a hard time blocking out the memory of the ground giving way abruptly under my feet, or the din created by the fall of boulders and trees. I tried instead to concentrate on the swish of the windshield wipers. When I’d left the compound, the dark, lowlying clouds had delivered a furious downpour of icy rain. At least it wasn’t snow. I ran from the van to our porch steps and pushed inside, my heart thumping.
Arch was in the kitchen heating pizza. I was so happy to see him I rushed over and gave him a hug. Jake’s tail whacked the floor happily in greeting. His red-rimmed eyes, furrowed brow, and long, floppy ears made even an old cat-lover like me smile. Jake panted excitedly, and, it seemed to me, smiled back. Maybe we were bonding after all.
“Gosh, Mom, where have you been?” Arch eyed my filthy jeans and jacket. “I thought you hated hiking. Is that where you went with the general, that you wouldn’t let me come because you wanted to check it out first? Hiking? I swear, Mom, you look like you fell into a mud pit.”
“I did, sort o[ And you’re right,” I replied, “I do hate hiking. Unfortunately, that’s what I had to do with Bo Farquhar. Sort of hiking and sort of climbing.” And sort of scrambling for our lives.
“In this weather?” It was hard to ignore his friendly mimic of my voice, but I did. Upstairs, I quickly stripped out of the muddy clothes and ran the bathwater. And to treat myself, I poured in double the amount of perfumed bath salts.
Soon I was back in the kitc
hen, sipping piping hot Formosa Oolong, snugly wrapped in Tom’s green terry-cloth robe. I tried to think. After a few minutes, I put down my teacup and dialed Tom, only to get his voice mail. I left a message. Somehow I couldn’t imagine going out on my evening catering assignment alone. Not right after I’d survived a natural disaster that had very nearly deprived my son (and his dog) of a mother. Which gave me an idea.
“Arch,” I said. “Macguire can’t help me tonight “
Arch swallowed his last mouthful of pizza. “Why not?
This was no time to get into a discussion of why Macguire had chosen this evening to watch all the Die Hard movies so he could learn how to be a policeman. I rushed on with: “Would you please shower and get into a black-and-white outfit so you can come help me tonight? I’ll pay you.”
After we’d negotiated a suitable salary and fed Jake, : we quickly packed up the ingredients for the shrimp pilaf I was preparing for the dinner at the Trotfields’ mammoth house on Arnold Palmer Avenue in the Meadowview area of Aspen Meadow Country Club.
The rain had turned back to mist by the time we set out. On the way over, I asked Arch if anyone had called while I was gone. He said no and wondered suspiciously why I was asking. Of course I wasn’t about to tell him that I wondered how the general was recovering from his rock slide injury.
“Jake wasn’t outside barking, if that’s what youre getting at. The neighbors weren’t complaining. He’s a good dog, Mom. After what he’s been through, he just needs a lot of affection.”
“I know, I know. That’s why I let him stay on your bed while we’re gone.”
“He probably misses me already.”
“We’re only going to be away a few hours.”
“With Meadowview clients?” Arch huffed. “You’ve got to be kidding. Cook this, clean up that. Call so-and-so and get more chardonnay delivered. Oh, better make that six cases, looks like we’re running out. Then go take Mrs. Smith some aspirin, because she’s got a terrible headache and is upstairs lying down. And you just want to say, ‘Well, if she hadn’t drunk all that chardonnay ‘ “
“Arch! That has never happened.”
“Just about.” We swung through the elegant stone entryway to Meadowview. Large, pale houses sailed past in the dusk. “These people have too much money,” Arch said. “They are too stuck-up.”
“The Farquhars used to live over here,” I reminded him.
“They were different. The general was doing cool bomb experiments and he had all that nifty security. And he wasn’t stuck-up.”
Crazy, maybe, but not stuck-up. Thank goodness for small blessings. I wheeled the van onto Arnold Palmer Avenue. “The place where we’re going has good security.”
Arch shot me a fierce look. “I bet they’re not guarding a batch of state-of-the-art explosives.”
“No, they have paintings. You know, art. The husband flies all over the world, but the wife’s the one with the money. She uses it to buy paintings by famous artists.”
He snorted. “See, I told you. They’ll have a teensy-weensy yard that their kids can’t even play in. And then they’ll have a great big house filled with gross paintings. There’ll be pictures of people with horses, people with dogs, horses with dogs, dogs with “
“Arch, please. You’re acting prejudiced against these people, and you don’t even know them. Besides, with the money you earn tonight, you can buy some rawhide for Jake. And if you want a portrait of him, you can paint it yourself.”
He hrumphed. But he was right about the area where we were catering. Less than twenty years old, Meadowview is a posh development that features enormous houses that resemble yachts anchored to small grass lots. The lots might boast one or perhaps two pine trees. But the heavy demand for the residences in this expensive mansionhood had come from East Coasters and Californians fleeing high crime rates and even higher living costs. These new Coloradans could now look forty feet across their property and find themselves peering into their neighbor’s bedroom. Would that make them feel perfectly secure, I wondered? Probably not.
“Gosh, this is valuable?” Arch asked half an hour later, when we were setting up the buffet. “This is what they have all that security for? Do you suppose somebody meant to paint this way?” He was staring at a large Motherwell canvas on the Trotfields’ foyer wall. In the dining room, Amanda Trotfield had hung Giacometti and Henry Moore sketches. A Franz Kline and a de Kooning graced the living room. The Motherwell that Arch was regarding so skeptically featured a large section of blue, with a fragment of a cigarette painted in one corner. Not a painting I would have chosen for the entryway to a smoke-free house.
“I don’t know, honey, but yes, I think the artist probably meant to paint that way. At least it’s not people on horses. Let’s serve the appetizers and then we’ll be able to take a break.”
While Arch passed trays of filo-wrapped spinach triangles, I tossed fat, juicy strawberries with chilled, steamed sugar-snap peas in a light vinaigrette. It was a delicate, unusual salad that would contrast well with the Plantation Pilaf-a rich-tasting lowfat dish featuring succulent shrimp bathed in sherry and tomato juice. Marla had told me she was invited tonight, and I was eager to see her again. She had looked so bad when she’d told me the news about Albert absconding with the money that I was deeply worried about her. I hoped she’d have some news about either the teller or the missing money tonight. Then again, maybe someone else would have news. The Trotfields were Prospect Financial investors; Sandy Trotfield had called Albert Lipscomb’s office the morning the infamous partner hadn’t shown up for work. According to Tom, the Trotfields were friends of Tony, Albert, or both. Tony Royce himself as well as the Hardcastles, would be in attendance tonight, too. One of the guests ought to know something.
I loaded a tray with ice and liquor bottles. Perhaps I could ask a few questions that would help Marla find out what was going on with that mine. Then again, maybe I was just being nosy.
Sugar-Snap Pea and Strawberry Salad
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons raspberry vinegar
ź teaspoon Dijon mustard
ź pound (1 cup) sugar-snap peas, including pods, strings removed
1 pound (4 cups) ripe strawberries, thickly sliced
Combine the oil, vinegar, and mustard in a small bowl; whisk thoroughly and set aside. Steam the sugar-snap peapods for 30 seconds or until bright green but still crunchy. Remove them from the heat, drain, then quickly run cold water over them to stop the cooking, and drain again. Combine the sugar-snaps with the sliced strawberries. Whisk the dressing again and drizzle over the peapods and strawberries. Serve immediately or chill for no more than one hour. Serves 4.
As soon as the hors d’oeuvres and drinks were well in hand, I advised Arch to take a break. He had just poured himself a soft drink when Marla popped into the kitchen.
“Hey, guys!” Her cheeriness seemed forced, and her complexion was splotched. She was wearing a shiny royal blue Princess Di sort of dress, only she looked more like a young Queen Mother. “These abstract paintings destroy my appetite,” she grumped. “Why can’t the Trotfields at least buy a few Warhol soup cans?”
“Oh, stop it,” I said. “Go have fun with the guests.”
She made a face. “Oh, sure. The cops have been around questioning all the Prospect clients, and nearly everyone here tonight has invested with Prospect, as you probably know. Did we know this about Albert Lipscomb, do we know that? Tonight we’ll hear everyone’s theories on what really happened to Albert. Sort of a replay of last month, when I had to endure everybody’s theories on what happened to Victoria. Was she depressed, was she a bad driver, was she forced off the road, did she have car problems?” She lowered her voice. “Tony says the clients don’t know about the missing three and a half mil yet, so mum’s the word, Goldy. The clients suspect Albert took a wad of dough, though. And not a word tonight about the mine. Tony’s in his act-normal mode. It’s boring as hell.” I muttered a
silent curse. So much for sneakily questioning the guests. Marla winked at Arch and said, “Hey, guy, got any chocolate? I’m desperate.”
Arch laughed. “You haven’t even had dinner yet.” I poured tiny amounts of glistening olive oil into two wide frying pans. “What’s the act-normal mode?” Marla scowled. “Oh, don’t get me started on Tony and how he’s repressing his hysteria. I used to think he needed me. Now I think he needs an IV full of Demerol, a straitjacket, and a padded cell. Make that an IV full of Thorazine. I’m so tired of the man I could spit.”
“Well, don’t do that,” I said as I shook the pan of sauteing onions. They sizzled invitingly. “Listen, Marla. There’s something I need to ask you…” But what was it the general had said? I inhaled the rich scent of caramelizing onions and tried to remember.
Plantation Pilaf
3 tablespoons olive oil
8 ounces (1 ź cups) onion, halved and very thinly sliced
3 garlic cloves, pressed
1 ź cups rice
2 cups homemade low-fat chicken stock (recipe is in KILLER PANCAKE,) or use 2 cups canned chicken broth
ž cup tomato juice
ź cup dry sherry
1 ž teaspoon paprika
˝ teaspoon salt
1 quart water
1 tablespoon Old Bay seasoning
24 medium or large raw “Easy-Peel” shrimp (8 to 10 ounces of frozen raw shrimp)
1 cup canned pineapple chunks, thoroughly drained and patted dry on paper towels
1 cup frozen baby peas
In a nonstick skillet, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil over medium heat. Add onions and cook until they are translucent. Add garlic, stir, and lower heat. Cook very briefly, only until garlic is also translucent. Do not brown the onions or the garlic. In another wide skillet, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil over medium heat. Add rice and saute until golden brown. Add cooked onions and garlic, stock, tomato juice, sherry, paprika, and salt. Cover the pan and cook 20 to 30 minutes, or until juices are absorbed.
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