“Oh, Mrs. Schulz,” Todd cried, “we’re going to help him. And we’re going to leave room in your van for our boards, too.”
“We’ll make it work, we promise,” Gus piped up.
“Oh, yeah,” Arch said, “and we’ll tape the Broncos for you. I mean, if you’re going to miss it.”
I reflected for a moment. “You’re on. I’ll listen to the game on the radio, if I have to.”
“Thanks, Mom!”
“Thanks, Mrs. Schulz!”
The three of them hustled up the stairs. After the months and months I’d been begging Arch to go through his closet, desk, and bookshelves, I did not see how in the world the three of them would be able to organize the remainder of Arch’s many piles of volumes in the next hour. But apparently the incentive of boarding on fresh snow was enough to motivate them. Wake up, Mom.
Before I could start prepping with Julian, my business line rang. When I checked the caller ID, my heart catapulted downward. I prayed that Hermie MacArthur wasn’t going to cancel because of the new snow, which, if Arch’s prediction was right, was going to stop soon anyway. But no, it was just the opposite.
“Goldy, darlin’,” she began. “I’m so glad I caught you. We just would love to be able to add one more couple to our little lunch tomorrow. Neil Tharp called this afternoon and has something he wants to show Smithfield. Ol’ Smitty was real glad, because even though Neil invited himself over here, he did show Smitty somethin’ interesting. But then Neil and the other map dealer got into their little set-to, and Neil and Smithfield didn’t get to finish their business. You know that other map dealer I’m talkin’ about?”
“Larry Craddock.” Did Hermie know what had happened to Craddock? I doubted it.
“Smithfield wants to invite him, if that’s all right. I told him I couldn’t have an uneven number, because of the chairs. So I called Neil, and asked him to bring a lady friend, but he said he didn’t have one.”
“They’re probably all recovering from Rohypnol poisoning.”
“What, darlin’?”
“Nothing.”
“So, ol’ Neil Tharp said he would just love to invite Elizabeth Wellington, because she was feeling sad on account of her husband dying—”
“Her ex-husband, you mean?”
“Yes, yes, her ex-husband, I mean. I was worried, because I’d invited Patricia Ingersoll, since she lives over in Flicker Ridge, and I’ve been wanting to get to know her. Also, I want to pay her back, because she brought over some cookies when we first moved in, and I thought that was nice, even though they were low-fat cookies, and Smitty made me throw them out. I did hear that Patricia and Drew Wellington were involved, and I didn’t want to upset Elizabeth, you know—”
“Hermie,” I interrupted again. “How many people are you going to have, then?”
“Well, sixteen, darlin’, I was getting to that. I’m sorry, am I not going fast enough for you?”
I forced myself to be solicitous, even though my body was beginning to hurt again from my roll through the pines that had ended in Cottonwood Creek. “Of course not. It’s just that today I had a bad fall—”
“Oh, darlin’, doin’ what?”
“Nothing. I just fell…on the ice.”
“Fell on the ice where, darlin’?”
Agh! I said, “It doesn’t matter, Hermie. So, what did you want to tell me, besides the fact that you’re adding two people?”
“Well, I wanted to know what you thought of my inviting both women? I can’t have another conflict the way we did the other night.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I lied. If Patricia and Elizabeth got into an argument, maybe I could stop it by breaking another window in the kitchen.
“No, no, I’m not sure it’ll be fine at all,” Hermie said.
“Why not?”
“Well, you know, first of all, Smithfield has been so upset about his whole map collection ever since Neil and Larry were here. I thought I would try to sort of make it up to Larry, too, if I was going to invite Neil, I mean. You don’t happen to know Larry Craddock’s number, do you, darlin’? I’d ask Smithfield, but he’s been gone all mornin’…”
“Gone all morning?” I said, too sharply. What had he been doing? I wondered. Having an unsuccessful meeting with Larry Craddock? Maybe Smithfield was physically stronger than I’d thought, and maybe he’d done in Craddock.
“Yes, and I can’t imagine where in the world—”
“I don’t know Larry Craddock’s number,” I interrupted.
“Well, anyway, I thought maybe the two of them could try to get along, you know, for Smithfield’s sake? I’ve always said that getting along is more important than anything you can do with money—”
“Hermie—”
“Some people just have to have things their way, you know? I was saying to Smithfield that there shouldn’t be any reason why Patricia and Elizabeth couldn’t get along, I mean, not with Drew gone and all…”
I plunked myself down in one of our living-room chairs and closed my eyes. As Hermie chatted on, I thought of that old story about the difference between a Southerner and a Yankee. You ask a Yankee how much a dime is worth. She gives you a frosty look and says, “Ten cents.” You ask a Southerner, and she says, “Well, I s’pose it’s not worth what it used to be, I mean, I could buy a whole pocket full of Red Hots and Charleston Chews and Sugar Daddys when I was just a little girl, and my momma would see me coming with all that sweet stuff, and she’d say—”
I must have drifted off, because the phone fell out of my hands. Hermie didn’t even notice. I picked up the receiver, zipped back into the kitchen, and turned down the volume on the radio. Then I wrote a note to Julian in capital letters: CALL ME. LOUDLY.
Which he did.
“Who’s that yelling?” Hermie wanted to know.
“That’s actually my assistant—”
“Tell him to quit it, will you please? There’s something important here I want to tell you, and that is that I called Patricia Ingersoll and told her I’d invited Elizabeth, ’cuz Neil wanted her, and she started yelling and screaming about how could I do such a thing, how could I hurt her in that way, and maybe she wouldn’t come after all, and she was going to tell people how cruel and unfeeling I was, and I mean, I couldn’t have that, so I said you would take care of it.”
“You said what?”
“Now, darlin’, all you have to do is go over to Patricia’s house and talk to her a little bit, and everything will be just hunky-dory.”
“Fine,” I said through clenched teeth. It would probably take me less time to visit with Patricia than it would listening to any more of this story. I begged off from talking any more with Hermie by telling her I would go to Patricia’s after I’d dropped off the boys at the Regal Ridge Snow Sports Area. School was out, I moaned, and the kids wanted to take advantage of that fact. Hermie said she understood, Chantal was always wanting to be driven over to that slope, which meant she had to find her skis, and her gloves, and…I jumped into the conversation by saying I’d see her the next morning, and so long till then. Then, I hoped not too rudely, I hung up.
“You’re taking them to snowboard?” Julian asked, with a glance outside. “When?”
“In about an hour, which is when Arch says he will have finished with packing up his books, and the snow will have stopped. Plus, Hermie’s added a couple of folks, and I need to buy another rack of lamb chops at the grocery store. I also have to go see Patricia to try to iron out the guest list for tomorrow’s luncheon.” I gave Julian an arch look. “Hermie’s invited both Patricia, Drew’s fiancée, and Elizabeth, Drew’s ex-wife. She doesn’t want a scene like at last night’s party, so I’m supposed to smooth things out in advance.”
“You’re kidding…no, wait, I know you’re not.”
“Let’s try to get this prep finished, then I’ll bundle up the boys and take them.”
“What about the books? Do you want to take them while I take the guys to the RRSS
A?”
“Sure, that would be great, thanks. I need something else at the library, anyway.” Neil Tharp had asked me if I had a photo of Sandee Brisbane, and I’d had to say no. But the library had computer archives of all the major newspapers, and I knew there would be news photos of Sandee from this past summer, run after she confessed and disappeared in the fire. I could get a copy of one and show it to Neil. If I had to go to Patricia’s house anyway, I’d offer her the photo, too, and just have her confirm that it was Sandee she’d seen following Drew around. Maybe it would jog her memory of any other details that might help track Sandee down.
“I’ll pack up some cookies for the boys,” Julian offered. “Do you want some for Patricia, too?” When I nodded, he busied himself with these culinary peace offerings, and I again thanked my lucky stars to have such a great assistant.
I still had kitchen work to do. For the MacArthurs’ lunch, we were offering a homemade tomato soup that had a bit of a spicy kick to it, to be followed by luxurious lamb chops persillade, creamy potatoes au gratin, and steamed winter vegetables. The persillade, basically a mixture of lemon zest, fresh parsley, soft bread crumbs, pressed garlic, and melted butter, had to be made at the last minute. But Julian and I had had so much practice using our handy-dandy portable food processor that we’d be able to make short work of the topping that we would press onto the eight racks of lamb chops. While Julian retrieved the bags of winter vegetables to be washed and prepped, I put my efforts toward making the first batch of potatoes au gratin.
The essence of this dish, in my view, was not the luscious layers of sliced potatoes, Gruyère and Parmesan, and heavy whipping cream, although those were all very nice. No—it was the layer of slow-cooked, caramelized onions that I’d learned to place between the potatoes. When people tasted the dish, they always said, “What’s in this that makes it taste so yummy?” I would tell them, but their look of disbelief told me that no one believed that onions could truly be a “secret ingredient.” Which was fine by me, because then when people wanted me to cater their elegant meals, they invariably asked for “that cheesy potato dish you make.”
As Arch would say, “Q.E.D., Mom.” Quod erat demonstrandum, indeed.
When the mounds of onions were bubbling in their pools of butter, I lowered the heat underneath the two sauté pans and started peeling the potatoes. I was halfway through slicing that most comforting of root vegetables when Tom surprised us by banging through the back door. His sheepskin coat hung loosely from his tall frame, and he hadn’t bothered to brush the snow out of his hair. His face was haggard. When Julian and I asked if we could fix him something to eat, he said he wanted to spend some time with Jake first. This sometimes happened when Tom was working a particularly grisly murder: he needed to get the unconditional love of a canine before he could come back into the real world. Then, Tom announced wearily, he would have a shower and come back down for whatever food we could rustle up for him.
I sighed, and Julian shook his head. When Tom had disappeared into the living room and was rolling around on the floor with our bloodhound, Julian finally said, “Should I go make sure he’s okay?”
“He’ll be all right. Sometimes he needs to do this.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’d finished the first pan of potatoes au gratin, and Tom was back in the kitchen. There was one enchilada left, and a third of the Unorthodox Shepherd’s Pie. Tom scarfed both down. He wiped his mouth and gave me a wide smile. “Thanks, Miss G. You always seem to know what I need.” He assessed me. “Now, how ’bout you? That was a nasty roll you took.”
“I’m fine.”
Julian, putting together something behind me, said, “Bull. You’re in pain and Tom and I both know it. You should let me do the MacArthurs’ lunch tomorrow. As you would say, it’ll be a piece of cake.”
“Let me see how I feel tomorrow, okay, guys?” I sat down beside Tom. “Did you get my message?”
Tom nodded. “We went to the strip club where Sandee worked. It was closed on account of it being Sunday, but the staff and strippers were there having a meeting. Anyway, we asked a lot of questions. None of the current strippers knew Sandee, and the staff who do remember her don’t seem to have liked her very much. So it’s doubtful any of them are hiding her. Our guys are on their way to Father Pete’s place right now to talk to him about the car and what Sandee might have said to him. Now that you’ve flushed her out, I imagine that she’ll be lying low. But we’re going to try to find her. We don’t want her cutting hair without a barber’s license.”
“Tom!” I took a deep breath. “Now tell me about Larry Craddock.”
“It looks as if he was hit on the head with a rock, or else he fell on a rock, and then was held underwater. There’s a lot of blood. You know, on account of the head wound.”
“Any idea how it happened?”
Tom shook his head. “It doesn’t look like an accident. Or suicide.”
“And the paper thing downstream?” I asked. “Was it a map?”
“Good for you, Miss G. It was. ’Course now, it’s soaked with creek water. But one of our guys who was working on the first map? He’d made a bunch of calls to map dealers, and a library in Baltimore is missing a map just like our Nebraska map. They also say they’re missing one of Texas. So our guy says he thinks this might be the second map missing from that library.” Tom’s green eyes regarded me. “The Baltimore librarian says both maps appear to have been cut out of the same volume…with an X-Acto knife.”
“Good God. I guess you don’t know about fingerprints,” I said.
“Not yet. Sometimes fingerprints last in water, if they haven’t been touched. But usually they don’t. Did the church folks leave any cherry pie?”
Julian said he would check, then he hastened out to the van to search for our leftovers.
I asked, “Do you think you can find Sandee’s aunt?”
Tom shrugged. “We’re checking it out. But if all the good rector knew was that they had a daughter, the husband worked for a bank, and they lived in the Springs, that’s not much to go on. Sorry.”
“Well, I want to photocopy a picture of Sandee while I’m dropping Arch’s boxes at the library. Then I want to take it over to Neil Tharp’s place, and to Patricia’s, to see if it jogs their memories.”
Tom emphatically shook his head. “Forget it. I know you started in this thing to help Patricia, but with Larry murdered, and Sandee Brisbane running around with her knife, you’re going to have to take fewer chances. Patricia and Neil are both suspects in the murder of Drew Wellington, and you are not going to their places of residence without protection.”
“Are you going to protect me at the MacArthurs’ lunch tomorrow, too? Because both Neil and Patricia are supposed to be attending, not to mention Elizabeth Wellington, who’s coming as Neil Tharp’s date.”
Julian had returned with the remains of the pie, and as I took it from him, he said, “The boys are just about done with loading up the books. They’re really thankful I’m taking them to the RRSSA.”
“Gratitude is always welcome.”
When Julian had left the kitchen, I sliced a large piece of pie for Tom. While it was heating in the microwave, I pulled out some superrich French vanilla ice cream and levered out an enormous scoop. The piece of warm cherry pie à la mode that I placed in front of Tom a moment later was worthy of a magazine cover shoot.
Tom took the fork I offered and cocked a cider-colored eyebrow at me. “You’re up to something.”
“You know me too well.” While Tom groaned I went on: “I have to go to Patricia’s anyway, because she and Hermie MacArthur skirmished over the guest list for tomorrow’s luncheon.”
Tom took a large bite of pie. When he’d finished chewing, he said, “That was good. But you’re going to have to enlighten me on why you have to deal with a fight between two tiresome, wealthy women.”
I told him that Patricia was also feuding with her ex-daughter-in-law over about forty or fifty million dollars an
d a missing drawing by Rodin, “a very famous nineteenth-century artist, whose drawings are probably worth quite a bit,” I added.
Tom scraped a last bit of crust and cherry juice from his plate. “Thanks. I know who Rodin is.”
“If I dropped in on Patricia to show her Sandee’s picture and try to iron out this problem with Hermie, then maybe I could look around for the Rodin.”
Tom actually laughed. “You think she would have hung it right in her living room? A drawing worth lots of moolah?”
“Tom, will you come with me to visit Patricia Ingersoll and Neil Tharp? Please? You can wear your gun.”
He exhaled. “Can I listen to the Broncos on the radio?”
Half an hour later, the first pan of potatoes au gratin was cooling, and Julian and the boys had loaded their boards and gear into Julian’s Range Rover. The snow had indeed stopped, although low-hanging gray clouds threatened more of the white stuff. Arch, exuberant, made me promise to come see him “catch some air,” once I’d finished running around trying to talk to people.
After they left, Tom and I climbed into my van, which was loaded with eleven boxes of books. While Tom drove I called the one caterer I knew in the Springs. She said she was doing a big party for the football game but would check her files as soon as she could to see if she had ever had a wealthy banker with a wife and a daughter who might or might not be about fifteen. “It doesn’t sound familiar,” she said, sounding unhopeful. I just asked her to do her best. As an afterthought, I asked her to see if these people might have moved to Furman County.
Tom, meanwhile, got a call from one of his deputies, informing him that Father Pete had given him a statement and the license plate and model year of the green Volvo station wagon. The sheriff’s department had issued an APB. But they weren’t very hopeful either.
“Does this mean the case against Sandee will be reopened?” I asked Tom.
He was backing the van up the driveway by the rear entrance to the library. “We have to find her first. Could you see if some of your librarians could open that door for us? It’d make life easier.”
Sweet Revenge Page 28
