I peeled the potatoes, dropped them into the water, and checked on the enchiladas, which had begun to bubble. Next I nuked the chicken stock. After slicing a mountain of celery, I began chopping the onions. And that was when I again saw the blood on the rock, the map floating downstream.
“Dammit to hell,” I muttered. Larry Craddock had been angry and he’d been violent. Had he gotten into a brawl with someone who’d given him a lethal push into Cottonwood Creek? And had their conflict been over the map that I’d seen in the water? Drew was no longer with us, so who did that leave? Neil Tharp? Smithfield MacArthur? Were there other willing-to-kill map collectors out there whom I didn’t even know about?
I began sautéing the ground beef with the onions and celery. I thought again about Sandee. She, too, had a propensity for violence. And of course there was the fact that she’d been speeding away from town when I’d started following her. But her sleeves had been dry, and if she had killed Larry, what was her motive?
I still thought this possibility was less likely. Sandee had been stalking Drew, threatening him with hostile e-mails, and I had seen her near Drew not long before Roberta came upon him. But if Sandee had killed Drew, I was still missing a motive.
I spooned flour into the beef, onions, and celery, then heated and stirred the concoction until it began to bubble. This was one of the first things I’d learned from watching reruns of Julia Child’s cooking shows: stir the flour into the melted butter or, in this case, melted beef fat, and allow the resulting roux to cook until it bubbles. This is how you avoid a sauce that tastes chalky with uncooked flour. I’d never been much of a patient person, until I’d learned to cook. You have to wait for the transformation of the roux to take place, or you have to start over.
Once I’d added a judicious amount of stock along with some crushed thyme and rosemary, I set the pan to simmer and went back to the beginning of my thinking.
How exactly did Larry Craddock fit into this puzzle with Drew Wellington, and perhaps Sandee Brisbane? Maybe it was the bump on the head that my roll through the pine needles had engendered, but I couldn’t imagine any way the three of them could be involved. I felt so frustrated, I almost picked up a glass and threw it through the kitchen window…
Which reminded me. That was yet another unanswered question. Who’d thrown the snowball with the knife inside? And had I been its intended target, as I suspected, or was it thrown for another reason?
I watched the beef bubble in the sauce, and searched my brain for what I knew about Drew Wellington’s circle. Patricia had been Drew’s girlfriend. They were getting married, according to her. Drew also had an ex-wife, Elizabeth, who had really loved him, until she hated him. And Drew had a penchant for underage girls, something that had cost him his marriage and caused him to ply a client’s daughter and her friend with booze. Drew also had been accused of stealing maps and selling them to clients, though as far as I knew, nothing had been definitively proven.
Neil Tharp, Drew’s business associate, was a question mark…Had he been loyal to Drew? Or not? If not, why not? Larry Craddock had been Drew’s mentor until they’d had a falling-out. Then they’d patched things up. Supposedly.
All this was making my head hurt. Time to put worries about Drew Wellington on the back burner, so to speak.
The timer went off, indicating the potatoes were done. I set them to drain, then added cupfuls of baby corn and peas to the beef mixture. I mashed the potatoes, then grated some Gruyère and Parmigiano Reggiano, and mixed them in. This was going to be a very unorthodox shepherd’s pie.
I removed the enchiladas from the oven and covered them with foil. Then I put the pie into the hot oven. For Julian, I decided to retrieve a casserole of homemade pasta with cheese sauce from the walk-in. When Father Pete rang the doorbell, Arch clomped out of his room and called down, asking if lunch was ready. I replied that it would be in twenty minutes, or earlier if he could get his pals to help him finish organizing the piles of unwanted stuff in his room. Arch groaned, but began asking the troops to help him finish cleaning up.
“Father Pete,” I greeted him. “Thanks for coming.” I looked out at our snowy street and furrowed my brow in mock worry. “Oh, dear, you might have to move your car. The residents have a fit when they can’t park on the street during a snowstorm. Could you pull your Jeep into our driveway? I’ll make sure you’re all the way in, and not blocking the sidewalk.”
Father Pete said, “Why, of course I’ll move into your driveway.” He turned his rotund body and walked carefully back down our sidewalk. I donned boots and a jacket and followed him, then watched as he navigated his four-wheel drive into our snow-covered driveway.
“Little bit farther!” I called from behind him. Father Pete chugged forward obediently, and I got a good look at his rear bumper.
“Goldy, I came as soon as I got your message,” Father Pete said, once he was outside his car and wading through the deep snow. “Then another parishioner called and said you’d found a corpse in the creek.”
I sighed. “I didn’t find him.”
“Oh, dear. Who was the dead person?”
“A man named Larry Craddock,” I replied.
Once we were inside, Father Pete removed a thick, knitted gray scarf that was full of holes. No question about it, the man did not care about clothes. He ran his big hands through his dark curly hair, then regarded me, his wide, olive-skinned face full of concern. “Larry Craddock, the map dealer? I met him before, but didn’t really know him. He wasn’t a parishioner and didn’t have any family that I knew of…but I’m more worried about you. You said you were attacked and fell in the creek? Were you trying to help Larry Craddock?”
“No.” I wasn’t quite ready to spring my trap. First, I wanted to ask if he knew anything about those questions I’d posed in my Drew file.
“But I can see you’ve been hurt.” His deep voice was filled with concern, and I almost, almost felt guilty about getting him over here on false pretenses. “Your face is covered with scratches.”
“I’m okay, thanks. So, you met Larry Craddock before, when he was with Drew Wellington?”
“No, Larry Craddock came to the church about a year ago.” Father Pete chuckled. “He wanted me to excommunicate Drew Wellington.”
“Excommunicate him? For what?”
Father Pete’s face darkened. “Goodness, I’m always telling people not to gossip, and there I go doing it. What smells so good?”
“Something I made just for you.” I told him about the Unorthodox Shepherd’s Pie while wishing he would gossip, just a little bit. Excommunication was a pretty serious punishment, but only if you cared that you were being kicked out of the church. My guess was that Drew had been successfully mining St. Luke’s for wealthy clients. If Larry had gotten wind of this, it might have angered him so much that he’d asked the parish priest to get rid of Drew.
I poured Father Pete and myself large glasses of sherry, and hoped this would loosen him up a little bit. Noting the unset table, the priest washed his hands and, unasked, began rooting around for plates and silverware. I checked on the enchiladas, the pasta, and the pie, threw together a large salad, and tried to think what to ask next.
“What’s that truism?” Father Pete asked benignly as he seated himself at the kitchen table. “That food always tastes better when it’s been cooked by someone else? Or maybe it’s that food tastes better when it’s something you shouldn’t be having because it’s full of superb ingredients? No matter what I said in church today, I am a greedy so-and-so.”
“You can say son of a bitch and I won’t mind,” I said.
“You wouldn’t, but my mother would.”
“Father Pete,” I said as I refilled his sherry glass, “does your personal prohibition against gossiping mean you won’t tell me anything negative about Patricia Ingersoll, Elizabeth Wellington, or Neil Tharp?”
He sipped his drink and smiled. “That is exactly what it means. But I will importune you for something to
nibble on, if that’s all right. Please don’t think I’m the first priest a curious parishioner tried to squeeze secrets out of by getting him to drink too much, and on an empty stomach, no less.”
“I’m that transparent, huh?” I rummaged in one of our cupboards, pulled out a can of salted nuts, and poured them into a glass bowl.
“Alas. You are.”
He took a handful of nuts, then ducked to the side. “While you were turned around I saw that…did something happen to your hair?”
“Yes. It was sliced off by Sandee Brisbane, who threatened me.”
Father Pete’s face became drawn and still. “Sandee who?”
“Sandee Brisbane. Are you telling me you don’t know her?”
The olive skin flushed dark. “Of course I know of her, because of what she did to your ex-husband. Still…I thought she was dead. The Brisbanes were parishioners, but it was slightly before my time at the church—”
“Father Pete, don’t mess with my head. You know full well that Sandee Brisbane is alive and well. And she’s a double murderer. Are you harboring her?”
He was indignant. “Goldy, how can you ask such a thing? Absolutely not.”
“Then do you want to tell me why she’s driving a car with a clergy parking sticker?”
Father Pete gave a large sigh and rubbed his eyes.
I said, “Hiding a fugitive from justice is a crime, you know.”
“Goldy?”
“Father Pete?”
“Look, I’m not hiding anyone. But I am beginning to regret coming over here for what was supposed to be a pastoral visit.”
“Where is she, Father Pete?”
“I have no idea. And I’m happy to tell your husband the same.”
“But you’ve seen her. You loaned her a car, right? And you gave her money. Didn’t you?”
“No, Goldy, I didn’t. And it distresses me to hear that you were attacked by this woman. But I did what I thought was best at the time. She has had a very hard life, as you know.”
“And that excuses her of murder?”
“Of course not. Look, Sandee Brisbane approached me about a month ago. I was surprised to learn that she was alive. She wanted information about several parishioners. I refused to give it to her, and she wouldn’t tell me why she wanted it. I encouraged her to turn herself in to the police, to face the consequences of her actions. It didn’t seem to be something she wanted to hear. She left, and I’ve seen nothing of her since.”
I shook my head. “So how is it that she’s running around Aspen Meadow in a car with a clergy parking sticker on it?”
“Well, that was a bit of a shock for me as well. About two weeks ago, I realized that a car that was given to us by a parishioner, and that we keep—used to keep—in a shed by our house, was missing. We don’t use it very often, and we keep the keys under the seat. We usually just lend it to folks in the church who need a vehicle for church business. When I didn’t see it, I thought perhaps we’d lent it to a current parishioner and I’d simply forgotten, or the church secretary simply hadn’t noted it down. Then later on, I guessed that Sandee might have taken it after she and I had our conversation.”
“She stole the church’s car? Why didn’t you report the theft, and her, to the police?”
The buzzer went off, and Father Pete gave me a quizzical look. I turned the heat down and crossed my arms.
“I’m truly, truly sorry, Goldy. In retrospect, reporting the theft is just what I should have done. If I had guessed that she might have threatened you, I certainly would have. But I’ve always believed that everyone should have the chance to make amends. I hoped that Sandee would return the car, and perhaps heed my advice and turn herself in. I didn’t know that she was even still in Aspen Meadow, actually, so the probability was slim, but I could hope. I made a mistake. Though like you trying to ply me with sherry, I did so with good intentions.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, and you know what they say the path to hell is paved with.”
Father Pete shifted the nuts around in the bowl. “Yes, they do say that. I suppose you’ll want me to talk with the police, about the station wagon, and everything?”
“I’ll call Tom and have him send an investigator over to the church to interview you.” I smiled. “But not until you’ve had some lunch. Can you answer one question for me? Was one of the people Sandee was asking about Drew Wellington?”
“Yes, it was. You don’t really think…? She wouldn’t have any reason—”
“She’s a killer, Father Pete. And she may have had her reasons. We know now that she was stalking Drew Wellington and sending him threatening e-mails.”
“I see.” His face had grown very grave.
“But we don’t know anything else for sure. Not yet.”
He sat back in the chair. “When I talked to Sandee, she had very kind things to say about her time here—I mean, her time at St. Luke’s. When she was twelve, her aunt, her mother’s sister, was very sick, she said, and she had taken care of her four-year-old cousin and volunteered to babysit other children in the nursery. She was very protective of them. I remember Father Biesbrouck telling me a story about Sandee, actually, from that time. He knew the family well. A child called Stevie at the nursery had a red mark on his arm. He told Sandee that his mother had burned him with a cigarette. Problem was, his mother didn’t even smoke. Stevie had fallen off a swing and scraped his arm on some gravel. But that didn’t sound very scary, so Stevie made up the bit about the cigarette. The twelve-year-old Sandee believed him and called social services.”
“I’ll bet Stevie’s parents didn’t appreciate being hauled down to the sheriff’s department.”
Father Pete shook his head. “No, indeed. Plus, Stevie’s father had to miss watching the Bronco game, so there was hell to pay.”
“I’ll bet. Was that the worst thing that happened when Sandee was manning the nursery?”
“You mean, apart from the fact that Stevie’s wealthy family became Presbyterians?”
The voices of Arch, Julian, Todd, and Gus tumbled through the kitchen door at the same time their bodies did.
“We’re hungry!”
“We’re starving!”
“Can we have some of those nuts?”
Frustrated that my conversation with Father Pete was going to be interrupted, I sighed and pulled the pie, the pasta, and the enchiladas out of the oven. Within moments we were all digging into steaming heaps of food and salad, and I told myself to let it go. Father Pete seemed to recover some of his equilibrium, and heaped praise on me for the Unorthodox Shepherd’s Pie. I felt it was the least I could do, given the rather difficult interview he’d be getting from Tom and the sheriff’s department.
When we finished eating, Julian insisted on doing the dishes. To my great astonishment, Arch and his pals said they wouldn’t hear of it; they were going to help, because Julian was “so cool.”
I escorted Father Pete out to the front hall, where he thanked me for lunch and donned his ratty coat and scarf. As he was walking out the door, I remembered something he’d said earlier.
“Father Pete, you mentioned that Sandee had an aunt in the church, and a little cousin?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t with the church then. I believe, though, that the aunt recovered and the family moved to Colorado Springs.”
“Do you know what their name was? Did Sandee mention it, or Father Biesbrouck?”
“I think the aunt’s first name was Caroline or Catherine, something like that. But I don’t recall hearing their last name.”
“Can you think of anything else about them? If Sandee had relatives in the area, it might be a clue to finding her.”
Father Pete gave me a very sad look. “I wish I could help you, Goldy. I just don’t—oh, wait, maybe I do know something about them.”
I hugged my sides as frigid air poured through the front door. “You know something?” I prompted.
Father Pete’s wide brow furrowed. “I think the aunt’s husband
worked for a bank.”
18
As soon as Father Pete left, I grabbed the kitchen phone. The boys ignored me. While merrily washing the dishes, they were singing along to a rock version of “Good King Wenceslas.” I should have had a video camera, complete with sound. Instead I took the phone to the living room.
“Tom,” I said into his voice mail, “Father Pete was just here.” I told him about the clergy parking sticker. I added that I hadn’t been sure about the sticker on Sandee’s borrowed car, and had had to check Father Pete’s Jeep and confront him before giving voice to my suspicions. “So please don’t be angry with me,” I said. “He’ll be able to give you the make, model, and license plate, and you can put out an APB.” I related what else I’d learned, and concluded by saying that the sheriff’s department could probably interview Father Pete right now, as he’d had so much to eat and drink I doubted he’d be able to do anything for the next few hours besides nap.
“Mom!” Arch called into the living room. “We want to offer you a deal.”
Here we go, I thought. But I replied that I was prepared to do negotiations.
Arch’s hopeful face, alongside Todd’s and Gus’s expectant, buoyant ones, made me want to just give them whatever they wanted, rather than bargain for it. But I’d learned the hard way that boys should earn whatever goodies they received or they didn’t value them. Besides, whatever the three of them desired was probably either expensive, time-consuming, or both, so I needed to prepare my chip.
“It’s supposed to stop snowing by one,” Arch began. “And we really, really want to go snowboarding. Julian said the two of you had to work before your party tomorrow, but is there any way one of you could take us over to the RRSSA?”
“What’s the other part of the deal, kiddo?”
Arch brightened. “That the three of us finish packing up all the books that are going to go to the library’s used-book sale, and lug them out to your van.”
“That’s an awful lot of books, Arch.”
Sweet Revenge Page 27
