“Oh, Macguire, you poor “
“Don’t worry, I’m supposed to get out of here tomorrow. That’s a good thing, because they’ve got me rooming with this guy who snores, and it’s so loud he sounds like someone trying to start an airplane in a cave. I swear, I gotta get back home so I can sleep.”
“I’ll check with the police and call you later. I promise.” I hung up and fumbled with my shoelaces. My fingers were like ice. A bear or something. What did I know about grizzlies in our area? Supposedly they didn’t come this far south. But there had been reports of mountain lions in Idaho Springs, and there was no telling how the recent weird weather had affected migration and feeding patterns of Rocky Mountain wildlife. Oh, Marla, where are you?
I turned back to the phone. Call Tom immediately, a voice in my head commanded. But despite what I’d told Macguire, I was afraid to contact my husband. And I knew it was because, deep in my heart, I was certain he’d have bad news for me. As I debated, the phone rang again.
“Goldilocks’ Catering, Where… everything…” l A young female voice hesitantly inquired, “Er, is this Goldy, the caterer?”
“It is.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I can’t talk business, unfortunately, because I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”
“This is Kiki Belknap, calling from Prospect Financial? I’m Tony Royce’s secretary? Is he there? Because
“Of course he’s not here, it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning! Why on earth would Tony be here?”
“I’m sorry, because his calendar says so? I just don’t know, are you like, meeting with him, or just talking to him on the phone? It says here, Goldy, ask about menus for August reception, eight A.M., with your phone number “
“Look, please let me call you back, Kiki, I have to check on my friend. Marla Korman you know her, don’t you? She was supposed to be with him “
“But you see, our office has just had a call from the police “
“What did they say?” I interrupted sharply.
“They wanted to know where Tony was! And I’m like, I mean, after last week with Mr. Lipscomb, I’m like, what are you talking about, asking where Mr. Royce is “
“I have to go,” I said brusquely. “Tony’s not here.” I tapped the button impatiently to get a dial tone, then punched in Marla’s number. Her machine picked up; I slammed the phone down.
I tiptoed quickly to Arch’s room. His bed was empty. Wherever he’d gone, he’d taken Jake. I rushed down to the kitchen. Where was Arch? There was a note crookedly taped onto the table:
Mom, I’m taking Jake for a walk around the lake. Don’t worry, I’m wearing my rainjacket just in case. Ill go out the back way. Love, Arch.
I was so upset I forgot Tom’s number and had to look up the sheriffs department’s main number in the phone book. The operator put me through to Tom’s extension, where I again encountered a machine. I urged Tom to call me ASAP; I turned on the water without fitting grounds into the espresso machine. To make matters worse, when hot water spewed all over the counter, I picked up a dry sponge and managed to slosh the scalding liquid onto my hands and the floor. “Start over,” I mumbled. I dropped a paper towel onto the steaming counter and fumbled for the coffee beans.
I sighed and looked out the window at fog so thick I couldn’t even see my neighbor’s house. Would this wretched weather never end? I ground a cupful of coffee beans, scrupulously remeasured the water, and then pressed the button for espresso. While the dark strands of liquid began to spurt out, I again punched the numbers for Marla’s house. This time I got a busy signal. My heart leapt: I tried again and once more got a busy. The next time I punched in her number, I encountered her machine. I waited this time and said, “It’s me, pick up! It’s Goldy! If you’re there, damn it, pick up!”
No response. Perhaps someone else had been calling the machine just at the moment I’d dialed and received the busy signals. I shook my head, then tried Tom again.
He answered on the first ring. “Schulz.” His voice was guarded, as if someone were right there looking over his shoulder. “Can you talk?” “One sec.” He put me on hold, then came back. “Go ahead.”
“Macguire just called. He’s in the hospital. Tom, have you heard of any accidents? Has something happened to Marla?”
“Wait, wait.” He lowered his voice. “How do you get from Macguire Perkins in the hospital to something happening to Marla?”
“Let me back up,” I blubbered. “I should have told you that Macguire had started to fancy himself an investigator. He’s decided to become a cop instead of going to college. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you would think it was dumb. Anyway, I saw him Friday outside the soup restaurant, and I guess he was tailing them Marla and Tony. I never thought that he’d follow them on their fishing trip this weekend.” I gave him the substance of my conversation with Macguire in the hospital. He listened patiently, without interrupting once.
“First of all, Miss G., I don’t think anybody’s aspirations are dumb, okay? Marla is his friend. He was worried about her. Now, where’s Headmaster Perkins? Has somebody let him know his son’s in the hospital?”
“I don’t know where Perkins is. Vermont, I think. For a month-long educational conference? I’m not sure. Macguire’s calling the school secretary, and he’s due to get out of the hospital tomorrow. But, Tom, where could Marla be? I mean, if Macguire was following them, and he got hurt, and then he couldn’t find Marla and Tony in the storm… where are they? Have you heard anything about people hurt up at Grizzly Creek? Tony Royce’s office just called “
“Hold on a sec.” He put me in telecommunications limbo for what seemed like an age. When he came back his voice was grim. “Okay, they got a call late yesterday morning, a trucker said he picked up a hitchhiker who claimed a bear had torn up a campsite where Tony Royce and Marla Korman were camping. We haven’t heard from Marla or Tony, but you know the phones in Aspen Meadow were down most of yesterday.”
“The hitchhiker was Macguire.”
“A team’s already gone up to Grizzly Creek. Because it was Tony and Marla, Captain Shockley’s put himself personally in charge.” His tone very clearly said, And you know what that means. “Goldy, you’re going to have to let me get back to you.”
“Are there any …” I couldn’t say the rest.
“No reports of death, no bodies floating in the creek or washed up on the shore,” he said curtly, and hung up.
I grabbed my mug of coffee and my keys and ran out the back door.
Once I was in the van, however, I sat, bewildered. What was I doing, exactly? I took a slug of espresso and thought, What’s a logical explanation for this? Okay, Tony and Marla were miserable out there camping in that awful storm. There was some kind of problem with Marla’s Mercedes, so they got a ride out. Macguire said they only had the one car, and he didn’t see them leave. Then some animal got into their campsite while Macguire was asleep in his car. After that, a rock hit Macguire… . No.
I inhaled more caffeine and struggled to kick-start my brain. Okay. Say they came back early, for whatever reason they could be at Tony’s place right now, or Marla’s, sleeping in, having fun, being naughty and missing Monday morning appointments. Maybe Marla’s answering machine was on but the volume was off she rigged her phone that way all the time. She could have called somebody this morning when I got the busy signal, but not heard me begging for her to pick up later. So … was I going to go hauling over to Marla’s house, if that’s where they were, and barge in?
Was I up to making a fool of myself? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. And anyway, what if Marla and Tony weren’t even there, what if they were at a hotel somewhere? I turned the ignition on, then off.
What about Macguire? What was the worst-case scenario? I wondered about Albert Lipscomb. If what Eileen Tobey had said was true, then the Eurydice Mine venture was Tony’s project as much as it was Albert’s. If it was a bust, Prospect might
not recover. Maybe, I wondered wildly, maybe Albert hadn’t left town at all. Tony had told everyone he and Marla were going fishing at Grizzly Creek this weekend. Albert could easily have come back for revenge on his partner, after Marla had found problems in the assay reports. Revenge for what? For not analyzing the mine properly? For risking the assets of the entire firm? Huge maybe questions. Then, after doing something to Tony and Marla, Albert had whacked Macguire for good measure, and slashed his tires, so that he could make his getaway with all that money before anyone got back to Aspen Meadow… .
But then where were Marla and Tony? With Albert Lipscomb? Dead in the rain near Grizzly Creek? I suddenly knew what I had to do.
Fog pressed against my windshield as the van inched toward Main Street. Cottony mist wove through streetside aspen branches. The van crunched over rutted gravel left in the destructive wake of the heavy rain. Once again, I had to slow behind a line of traffic. Ten car-lengths ahead, a road crew with two bulldozers scooped up the remains of a rock slide. I drank the last of the tepid espresso and tapped the steering wheel in frustration. I didn’t want to think about rock slides.
Where was Marla? Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of her house. A large pine branch, blown down in the storm, lay like a gnarled black bone in her groomed flower bed. The driveway was empty, the draperies pulled. There was no sign of movement on her street. I hopped up the stone steps. If Tony was here, I was going to recommend he break up with him. Immediately. Being involved with investment advisers, shady or otherwise, was getting to be burdensome on my cardiac health.
The doorbell dingdonged inside the silent house. I stared at my blurred reflection in the brass nameplate inscribed Chez Marla and waited. I rang again.
Decision time. She’d had a heart attack last summer. I’d gotten two busy signals and then nothing this morning. What if she was inside, and couldn’t call out, because she was having another heart attack? What if she needed me to do CPR? That’s my mom, I could hear Arch’s mocking voice. Always imagining the worst, and making you pay for her imagination.
Lucky for me, Marla frequently locked herself out of her own home. I hurried to the lock box under the utility gauges where I knew she kept at least two spare keys. I wrenched the box open, grabbed the one spare that was there, and sprinted back around to the front of the house.
The cold key bit into my palm as I once again pressed the doorbell and listened to it bong through the interior space. The key slipped from my hand and clanged onto the flagstone entryway. I picked it up and gently fit it into the lock. Unlike me, Marla had no sophisticated security system to protect against the Jerk or anyone else. She always claimed she had her ferocious personality to keep enemies at bay. The latch clicked, the knob turned, and I pushed the door open.
Stepping inside, I tried to prepare myself for the worst. If only I knew what the worst was, I reflected grimly. It was strangely heartening to sense a trace of Marla’s perfume in the air. In fact, the air in the house, surprisingly, was not three-day-old stale. I moved cautiously along the light blue Kirman runner into the front hall and sniffed again. Marla’s scent seemed to become stronger. So did the aroma of coffee.
Coffee? What the hell have I done? I wondered. She’s here with Tony and just not answering the phone. I’ve crashed in on a romantic interlude. She’ll never speak to me again, after this.
“Marla?” I ventured. “Hey, guys! Where are you? It’s Goldy. I’m here making a fool of myself because somebody said a bear got into your campground! Are you here?”
I fully expected to hear Marla’s familiar voice trill a sarcastic remark. Or perhaps her impish face and wild hair would appear and teasingly demand an explanation for my panicked behavior. Instead, I heard a tiny sound. Something hissed down the hall. I walked quickly toward it. Oddly, the kitchen floor was gritty with dried mud. The red light of the coffee machine blinked mockingly. Bubbles in the decanter bubbled and spat, producing both the scent and the sound I’d heard. I pulled the cord out of the wall and looked disconsolately around the room. I suddenly remembered something my mother used to do when she came home, and my brother and I looked guilty, and things in the kitchen didn’t look quite right. She would make a beeline for the trash bin. Whatever mischief we had made, whatever forbidden pizza or ice cream we had snitched, she figured, the telltale detritus was bound to be in the trash. I wrenched open the white cabinet and peered into the plastic garbage bag. It was filled with crumpled paper towels. I pulled one out. The towel was covered with dried blood.
“Marla!” I shouted. I threw down the towel and pawed through the trash. There was no meat tray or packaging to explain the bloodstained towels. I slammed out of the kitchen and ran up the back stairs, down the hall, and into her bedroom.
It was a disaster site. Clothes strewn on the beige carpeting. Towels draped over upholstered chairs. On her bed, the flowered bedcovers formed a mountainous tumble.
“Marla ” I croaked, fully expecting a corpse under the sheets.
The covers moved. If there were two people under there, I would never live down the mortification. That is, if Marla didn’t murder me for being such a paranoid idiot. But it would serve them right for not answering the doorbell or my calls.
A half-full cup of coffee and opened container of pills sat on the dressing table. The bedside lamp was on. I stepped awkwardly toward the bed just as Marla’s snarled mop of hair appeared from under a tousled sheet. I gasped.
“Marla? What’s going on?”
An unearthly groan, full of shame and pain, issued from the rumpled bed. Then a batch of soiled towels emerged, then my best friend’s face. I gasped again. One black eye, the other swollen shut. A bruised cheek. A dark, bloody gash down her forehead. She levered herself carefully to a sitting position. She wore a sweatshirt spotted with blood, which she tugged down self-consciously before raising her face to try to look at me.
“No,” I moaned, dropping to my knees next to her. “Oh God, you need a doctor. What happened “
“I wanted to call you, but the damn phone wasn’t working.” Her labored whisper squeezed my heart. “I’m sorry you have to … see me like this. I “
I reached a hand out to her poor face but she pulled away. “Marla, please,” I said firmly. “I’m calling your cardiologist. Won’t you tell me what happened? We must call the police.” The words tumbled out. Anger made my ears buzz.
She groaned. “I was going to call the police in a little bit, anyway, if I couldn’t reach Tony. I don’t know if he got out, too. I don’t think he saw me … I’ve tried to reach him, but he’s not answering his machine. He’ll be so ticked off if we call the cops. More bad publicity for Prospect. Just give it half an hour,” she begged. She stifled a sob and reached for a tissue.
“Marla, please tell me what happened.”
“Somebody… I … I … think it might have been Albert… .” A sob shuddered through her. I put my hand on her forearm and waited for her to continue. She went on: “Actually, it started Friday night. Tony and I had a terrible fight.”
“Oh, no.” She groaned again, peered uncertainly around the room, then fastened her gaze on the coffee and pills at her bedside. She groped for the brown pill bottle. I leaned close to see what it was. The label read: Royce, Tony. Take one tablet orally every 4 hours as needed for pain. Acetaminophen with codeine.
“Oh, Marla, don’t take his prescription. What have you got it for, anyway?”
“He leaves his stuff here all the time. And he gets headaches. Actually, sometimes I think that guy is a headache.”
“Marla “
“Let me take some meds,” she insisted, “and then I’ll tell you what happened.” To my horror, she shook out not one but three pills, popped them into her mouth, then washed them down with cold coffee. She grimaced. Then she groaned and sank back onto the pillow.
“Wait,” I told her. “Let me get a washcloth for that eye.” When I came back, she had pressed her face into the pillows and re
fused to look at me. “Marla,” I implored, “don’t talk. You have to let me call Dr. Gordon. He’s going to want to see you right away. This is for your health, Marla. This is for your life.”
She moaned. Then she reached out and to my relief, took the cold washcloth I offered. When she had eased back upright, I found the bedroom phone, a gilt rotary contraption that was supposed to go with the French Provincial theme. My heart ached for her. She always tried to make everything beautiful. Miraculously, I remembered Dr. Gordon’s number. The phone rang once, twice. It was an emergency, I told the answering service. Did I need an ambulance, the woman wanted to know. In the mountain area, I knew emergency medical services were handled by a private company called Front Range Ambulance. With only two vehicles available, and almost twenty-four hours without phone service in the mountains, ambulance service would be slow, misdirected, or worse, unavailable. I could get Marla to the hospital faster myself. No, I replied to the operator, I needed the doctor to call me. Dr. Gordon was in surgery, and a Dr. Yang would call me back, she informed me calmly. Within two minutes Dr. Yang phoned. I told him a cardiac patient of Dr. Gordon’s had been badly beaten. He said to bring her to Southwest Hospital immediately.
“You’re going to have to go in,” I told Marla gently. “As soon as we get there, I’ll call Tom to tell him you’re all right and to ask him to put out an APB on Albert Lipscomb. Listen,” I blurted out, “Macguire Perkins followed you because he wants to be a cop… .” No matter what Tom said, it still sounded dumb. “Anyway, Macguire’s at Lutheran Hospital. Out at that campsite, somebody hit him, too. You, Macguire, probably Tony, too all attacked. Marla, we must call the police as soon as we get you some medical attention.”
“Oh, Tony, Tony.” Marla groaned his name as she inched her way out of bed. Her legs were so bruised and badly cut that I bit back a cry of dismay. Without further protest, she let me help her into a large navy blue dress that buttoned up the front. I found her a pair of red sandals. She put them on, then slumped back on the bed, exhausted by the effort of dressing.
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