The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “He didn’t elaborate,” I said, “but apparently Holly said she was suddenly very tired—and then she fell.”

  “Overwhelming fatigue. For a woman, that’s classic for a heart attack,” Tom said. “We’ll know more later. Goldy? Are you all right?” I must have looked awful, and there was a sudden roaring in my ears. But I nodded. Tom made a quick call on his cell, disconnected, then turned to me. “Do you suppose Julian will be able to help Drew get ready?”

  “Of course,” I whispered. I would have to summon strength. If something had happened to me, Holly would be here, bustling around energetically, offering to take care of Arch.

  Tom went on, “I’ll ask him about this trip to Alaska, when he’s supposed to go. If it’s soon, he should go. It’ll be a few days before we know anything.” He seemed to think of something, then reached into his pocket and gave me a set of keys. “These go to Holly’s car. She had them in her hand when she collapsed. She also had a small purse, but I’m taking that down to the sheriff’s department.”

  “What about her cell phone?”

  He shook his head. “We don’t have it. I just have a prepaid cell of Drew’s. He used it to call emergency services. Goldy, please tell me if you are all right to do this.”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to sound stronger than I felt. “I’m okay.”

  The crowd parted as Tom walked quickly to Father Pete and Drew. The three of them made their way back up Marla’s driveway. I motioned for Julian to accompany me. Arch hurried over.

  “Mom. Where are you all going?”

  “To Drew’s house, so he can pack. He . . . has to . . . well, he has to stay someplace safe. Do you know when this Alaska trip is?”

  “No, sorry. But, please. Let me come with you. I want to be there for Drew.” His pale forehead, a pasty gray in the early evening light, furrowed. “Drew will want a friend with him. You know, somebody his own age.”

  I took a deep breath. “For sure. Thanks, hon.”

  When asked, Drew told Tom that he was due to leave the following evening for a fishing trip with Holly’s sister and her husband, who lived in a remote part of Alaska. He seemed confused. Should he still go to Alaska? Shouldn’t Holly’s sister stay here in Aspen Meadow, to . . . make arrangements? No, Tom said. If Drew felt up to it, he should stick with his plan. It would be good for him to be with Holly’s sister. Drew gave Tom the number of the sister. Yes, he was sure she would fly to Denver to get him. No, Tom reiterated that he would be staying somewhere safe until his aunt arrived. Drew nodded, then pressed his palms into his eyes.

  I looked up and down Marla’s street for Holly’s vehicle. Marla had said Holly sold the Audis, but what had she bought instead? I finally got the bright idea to press the remote on her key ring. This led me to a dusty-black Honda Civic. I exhaled.

  Arch, Julian, and I followed Father Pete, who used his own car to drive Drew. I’d told our priest about the cop needing to be with us, and he nodded sadly.

  A prowler flashed its lights at us when we pulled up in front of the Grizzly Saloon, our local watering hole. Father Pete took the lead.

  Arch and Julian conversed in low tones. I couldn’t talk; I could barely even breathe. I kept seeing Holly’s lovely face, her last words: We’ll get together soon, and talk . . . My heart pounded, and I ordered myself to pay attention to my driving.

  Relax, I told myself. Relax. Think about something else. Put your attention on anything that will get your mind away from what just happened.

  Traffic stopped us in sight of the spillway below Aspen Meadow Lake. Don’t think about Holly, my mind ordered, put your attention elsewhere. I blinked at the hills, thick with evergreens, that rose from the lake’s man-made shores. The body of water itself had been formed when engineers constructed a dam separating Upper and Lower Cottonwood Creek. Above the falls, the engineers excavated a meadow. The flooded part became the lake. As a result, the town of Aspen Meadow benefited from a reliable water supply, and summer and winter recreation seekers, as well as tourists, enriched the town’s businesses.

  A bloop siren from the prowler reminded me I had failed to accelerate when the traffic had cleared. I stepped on the pedal to follow Father Pete.

  “Mom?” Arch said. “Do you want Julian or me to drive?”

  “No, no, I’m okay.” Which I wasn’t. I turned left, then made a quick right behind Father Pete, onto a narrow road.

  I frowned. Where the engineers had had to blast the bottom of an actual mountain when they created the lake, they’d left a large cliff overlooking the water. As I followed Father Pete, I realized that was the hill we were driving up. The engineers had, perhaps intentionally, created a cove where, it was rumored, trout liked to hide.

  Much-desired sites that truly command vistas of the lake are hard to come by. So I was surprised when we finally finished climbing the winding road to the top of the hill that looked out over the water. The long lake view was stunning. The architect who had designed Holly’s rental had been fortunate to find a site with a rock outcropping that formed a thick precipice. Through a series of ingenious outdoor staircases, the architect had even afforded the homeowner a way of getting down to the path that circled the lake. Two dramatic wooden decks were cantilevered out over the water.

  Just looking at those protruding structures made me dizzy, and I averted my eyes.

  When Julian, Arch, and I got out of the van, Father Pete was holding on to Drew, right in the driveway. Drew, his tall body leaning into Father Pete, was sobbing. The priest gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  The cop was a tall black policewoman named Sergeant Jones. She had a head of black ringlets that didn’t seem to go with her being thick and muscular, which she certainly was. I was willing to bet she could take down any criminal, anytime. After she introduced herself to Julian, Arch, and me, she walked over to Father Pete and Drew to do the same. She took the keys I handed her, and she and Drew climbed up to Holly’s front porch.

  “Poor Drew,” said Arch, his voice low. “I don’t know how he’s going to make it. He loved his mother so much. Oh, Mom,” he said, and unexpectedly hugged me. And in that gesture, he seemed to say—or maybe it was my imagination—I know that I can be difficult, but I would miss you so much . . .

  I clung to him a moment longer than necessary. When he pulled away, he was looking at the ground.

  “It’s okay, hon,” I assured him. “Does . . . Drew get along with his dad?”

  Arch replied in a low tone, “I suppose.” When I waited, he elaborated. “Drew doesn’t talk much about him. But I know you’ve seen how George comes to all the meets, so it’s not like he’s, you know, absent. Drew told me that Lena, George’s new wife? She’s always criticizing him. But his grandmother, his dad’s mom, makes up for it by smothering him with love, which drives him just as crazy.”

  We arrived on the porch, which was cluttered with lawn furniture. Sergeant Jones was inspecting the front door. She pointed to a panel of buttons. “Was this installed with the house?”

  “No,” said Drew, his face blank. He stared at the panel, as if trying to remember the code, or even why we were there. “The architect went bankrupt building the place. No system. But we had a break-in a little over a week ago. Mom insisted the owner pay for a security system to be installed, even though the guy’s already reduced the price, and the place is still for sale.”

  “You had a break-in,” Sergeant Jones repeated, deadpan. Her large brown eyes regarded Drew. “Did you tell Investigator Schulz about that?”

  Drew shook his head. “Nothing was taken, and only a file cabinet was wrecked. But Mom said she had antiques that were more valuable than a bunch of files. There’s a panel for the outside, and one right inside the door.” He rummaged through his wallet and handed Sergeant Jones a ragged piece of paper. Sergeant Jones painstakingly entered the exterior numbers—zero-nine-zero-four—and threw open the front door, then entered the second code—zero-four-one-five—inside.

  “Ev
eryone wait here,” she ordered us curtly. She drew her weapon, which did not give me a good feeling.

  “Wait a minute,” said Drew. He pointed to a large rectangular cardboard box leaning in front of some chairs against the far wall of the porch. “Oh, jeez. That’s one of my mother’s collages, back from framing.”

  “Well,” I began, when no one said anything, “what should we—”

  “No, no, no, I don’t know what to do with it!” cried Drew. “I don’t know what to do with anything!”

  I walked over to the box, which was the size of a dining room tabletop, and read the label. It had come that day, addressed to Holly.

  Father Pete said mildly, “Not to worry. We’ll put it in the living room, in case it rains.” He still had one arm around Drew when Sergeant Jones returned and said the house was clear. Father Pete addressed his remarks to her. “Drew is still leaving for Alaska tomorrow. Investigator Schulz explained to Holly’s sister that no arrangements could be made for a memorial service, or anything else, for at least a week. He gave her my number, and she called on our way over here. Drew does not want to stay with a foster family any more time than necessary. So the sister is getting the first flight out of Anchorage. Drew wants to be with his aunt and her husband, the way they planned.” He gave the policewoman a significant look, so she would understand the emotional importance of following this course of action. “Meanwhile, Drew has to finish getting ready for his trip. We’re going to sit in the kitchen for a couple of minutes first. Can someone manage the carton?”

  “Yes,” said Julian, who was blinking. He had that quirk, opening and closing his eyes quickly, whenever his attention had been derailed and he needed to get it back on track. He picked up the package and shuffled inside with it.

  Drew, Sergeant Jones, and Father Pete settled in the kitchen, which caught the last of the light from the setting sun. Bits of their conversation floated out to us in the living room: Were there relatives or other people to be notified? Did they have a pet to be cared for? Did Holly have end-of-life plans . . . ?

  Arch and I sat uneasily in the living room, which was very neat but was even more cluttered than the porch. In addition to all the furniture from Holly’s former spacious home, there were numerous tables and shelves holding religious objects—small, ivory-colored sculpted Madonnas, mounted crystal crosses, tiny wooden statues of saints, ceramic lambs and fish, both symbols for Jesus, and lots of baby Jesuses themselves—plus other items I recognized from Holly’s previous residence. We knew Father Pete would call us when we were needed. Julian laid the box against the front wall and mumbled something about asking Drew where Holly’s studio was. He returned a moment later, shaking his head.

  “Drew says his mother never worked at home, even before they rented this house. She always leased space down in Cherry Creek.” Julian’s handsome face contorted in puzzlement. “Does that make sense to you?”

  I thought about Holly, about her financial problems, about a recent break-in at this rental, about haggling for a security system, about the price of real estate, any real estate, in that phenomenally expensive part of Denver: Cherry Creek.

  I said, “None of this makes sense to me.”

  6

  Julian stared in the direction of the kitchen, where the murmur of Father Pete, Drew, and Sergeant Jones’s voices were indistinguishable. After a moment, he sat down beside the china cabinet, on the Bidjar rug covering Holly’s living room floor. The rug, which I remembered Holly had inherited from her grandmother, was a gorgeously intricate maroon, navy, and cream design. She’d also inherited the furniture: the cherry end tables and butler’s tray, now covered with statuary, plus a china cabinet, whose shelves displayed rows of Holly’s plates. I recognized a pattern we’d eaten off of once: “some of Granny’s Haviland,” Holly had airily called the dishes, with their sprays of tiny pink flowers on a white background. Interspersed with those plates were others with a religious, specifically a Roman Catholic, theme: an angel on one, a lamb and fish on others. I couldn’t bear to look at them, and turned away.

  The room was also crowded with pairs of wingback chairs and two love seats, all upholstered in a creamy satin to complement the jewel tones in the rug. The pale beige walls held the oil paintings from her old living room, plus one of her portrait-collages. The brass-and-crystal table lamps looked familiar, as did a square table pushed into one corner. All of this had worked well in the large living room of Holly’s big place in Aspen Meadow Country Club. Here, it resembled a jumble sale.

  Why, it occurred to me out of nowhere, would a thief want your file cabinet, but not Granny’s Haviland or your precious Oriental rug?

  I swallowed and sat in one of the chairs. Holly was never going to be back here. She would never sweep in with the energy of a tornado, she would never tell me a joke and fling her blond hair over her shoulders. She would never look with concern, pride, or exasperation at Drew. The realization hit me hard.

  Julian got up from the rug and sat gingerly on one of the love seats. As he scanned the room, it seemed his thinking was going along the same lines as mine. I blinked at the Italian oil paintings of bucolic scenes that hung on three of the walls. They were probably copies, but Holly would never . . .

  Pull yourself together, I ordered myself.

  In the corner of the room stood that square mahogany table. I noted that it had carved legs. Two dining room chairs had been drawn up to it.

  “Boss,” said Julian, “you don’t look too good.”

  Breathe, my inner voice commanded. Get up and move.

  With effort, I hauled myself up and walked over to the table. A handmade wooden jigsaw puzzle lay on top, with most of the border done. It looked like one of the puzzles Holly had made for the Montessori school.

  The pieces to this one lay about higgledy-piggledy. Had Drew and Holly started on it—it was a colorful map—and just not finished? That would explain why there was no TV in evidence. But Drew and Holly had only gotten so far. This detail of family life, forever unfinished, made my heart lurch.

  Arch said he was going upstairs to help Drew pack. I looked over at Julian, who had his lips pressed together and was still glancing nervously around the room. Finally, he said, “If she was having money issues, why not sell some of this stuff? Why did the burglar not take these things?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My gaze fastened on the living room’s fourth wall, the one that contained the portrait-collage. Like all of her works, this one contained pieces from the person’s life—bits of clothing, mementos, photographs—as well as painted images applied here and there. I walked away from the puzzle table and stepped up close to my old friend’s work. The collage was not framed, but hung inside a Plexiglas box. I almost gasped when I realized the subject was Drew, from when he was little.

  There were six different squares inside the Plexiglas. They contained two photographs, one of Drew as an infant and one from the time when I remembered him best, as the tyke who loved Hot Wheels. Holly had put one of the miniature cars into a square. Another held a swatch of the denim jacket he was wearing in a birthday-party photo as he proudly held up an empty goldfish bowl that he had just unwrapped. There was also a tiny stuffed gray kangaroo, and a gold-and-blue badge from Scouts. Holly had painted fanciful shapes—blue rams, more angels, and pairs of goldfish—in each of these colors around the squares, pulling them into an aesthetic whole. Tears bit the back of my eyes.

  I fumbled in my pants for a tissue. The piece looked vaguely familiar. Had I seen it before? I couldn’t remember. Probably I had, when I’d visited Holly’s country-club house, after she’d started making the collages. I blew my nose and again ordered myself to get my act together.

  Julian came over to stand next to me. “Are you all right?”

  “Not at the moment. But I’m going to be. We have to help Drew.”

  Julian leaned in close to the collage. He whispered, “This is Drew, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; I glanced at Drew, who was looking disconsolate as he stood next to Sergeant Jones. He was emptying his pockets. I caught a bit of what he was saying, something about needing to wash his shorts before he could finish packing. Arch called from upstairs, asking if Drew was taking fishing gear to Alaska.

  While Drew and Sergeant Jones ascended the stairs to join Arch, Father Pete lumbered back toward Julian and me. At the sight of him, I reminded myself, You’re here to help. Remember?

  What could I do? Well, there was the box with the framed collage. What about asking Father Pete if it was ethically okay to open it? What if it did indeed contain a collage that someone was expecting to be delivered? Wouldn’t that help with the money Drew was sure to need?

  Father Pete said, “Drew’s aunt got a flight. She has a layover in Spokane, but that shouldn’t be too bad. Drew has his ticket. He’s supposed to stay at his aunt and uncle’s cabin for a week. George already gave his notarized consent. Drew is still torn. I told him he should go, that it was the normal thing he would have done, and that being with Holly’s sister would bring him comfort. I didn’t say that it’d be better than moping around here, imagining an autopsy on his beloved mother.” Father Pete’s wide brow wrinkled. “Drew most definitely does not want to stay with George, Lena, and Edith. The mother from the foster family is on her way here.” He fingered a piece of paper. “Drew gave me a list of people to call. The only immediate problem is that Holly was supposed to give Drew cash for the Alaska trip, and she hadn’t done that yet. Drew doesn’t know Holly’s ID number for the ATM. He’s a minor, and doesn’t have power of attorney, so he can’t get a new one. He’s adamant about not asking George for cash.” Father Pete shook his head. “He won’t tell me what the financial bad blood is between his mother and father. He’s so vulnerable at this point, I’m not going to press it.”