The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Was someone after me, too? If so, why?

  13

  Even though Tom had said we could leave soon, he wanted me to take him through our entire morning yet again. My bruised leg was beginning to throb, and I desperately wanted to rest it. I asked if we could sit beside the stand of blue spruce that had been planted around a statue of Saint Francis, just above the church parking lot. The flow of cops and crime-scene techs in and out of the church continued unabated. I wanted to put my back to that.

  “Sorry, Miss G. Of course. I should have thought.”

  When we’d settled by the evergreens, I pulled the quilt around the much-washed sweat suit I had just been given and willed myself to relax. As I did so, I remembered to tell Tom what we’d learned from the Amour Anonymous notes: that Holly had received a quarter of a million dollars as a settlement from George when they divorced, and she was supposed to get two hundred thousand-plus bucks in child support, in addition to private school and college tuition. He whistled. I asked if his team had managed to dig up anything on her financial situation.

  “Yes,” Tom said. He eyed Marla warily. She folded her legs beneath her and shrugged.

  “Tell Goldy what you want,” she said, tossing her head and raking her tawny hair with bejeweled fingers. “Leave me out of it, go ahead. But there’s that driving thing. Julian has a license; so does Arch. What the heck, Boyd can drive her. Maybe. But while you’re working on this case, you want to be sure somebody can chauffeur your wife around, right? Even if Boyd is with us on our way to Timbuktu? You also need to be confident of my help, yes? I, a longtime friend, fellow country-club member, and shopping pal of Holly’s, am also a parishioner at St. Luke’s, and know Father Pete well. And I’ll bet I can get you more good scoop on Kathie Beliar and Warren Broome than your department can find in a week. So you’d better not give me that chilly shoulder of yours, Tom Schulz.”

  Tom sighed. “Holly stowed her financial files in her desk, but they were only for December to now. She’d only made six deposits in her bank account since the beginning of December. Nothing from George. The deposits were for amounts between four and six thousand bucks, for a total of thirty-one thou. The deposits matched receipts for collages she’d delivered. We talked to the buyers of the collages, and the amounts matched. CBHS allowed her to pay tuition on a monthly plan. Now get this. Some of that she paid in cash.”

  I said, “Cash?”

  Tom nodded. “She filed for an extension on her taxes, and we have no idea what her income was for last year. We figured the rest of the income from this year went for rent, groceries, gas, and so on.”

  “If you’re getting two hundred thousand-plus a year, thirty-one thousand on top of that is still pretty darn good—” I began.

  Tom held up a hand. “As I said, we saw no trace of any two hundred-plus thousand. And she had credit-card debt in the thousands. But more interestingly, the people she did collages for provided clothing, toys, photographs, and so on. Holly told them it had to be stuff they were willing to part with and not see again.” Intrigued, I didn’t interrupt him this time. “They all said this. But we couldn’t find a trace of clothing, toys, or photographs. There was no studio in her rental. There were no receipts anywhere in Holly’s desk for studio rental or framing. Drew told you—and our guys, too, when we questioned him—that Holly rented studio space in Cherry Creek. But no, he said, he had never been there. And no, our guy thought to ask him, he had no idea what happened to all the stuff Holly got from clients to make the collages. Drew just said when a big cardboard container came, Holly said it was from the framers.”

  “And the twenty-five-K typed note inside the box with the collage?” I asked. “What was that about?”

  Tom shook his head. “We have no idea.”

  I said, “Anything else?”

  Tom took a deep breath. “Holly had sold the Audis belonging to her and her son in the past six months. We found the receipts. She used the money to hire a lawyer. She was suing George for back child support.”

  “I knew it,” Marla said.

  “Marla,” Tom said, “I swear to God, if I hear one inkling of any of this from any source whatsoever, I’m going to—”

  “Bash in the roof of my Mercedes? With me in it?” Marla said, opening her eyes wide. “How would that look? And just where do you get off threatening a civilian?”

  Tom exhaled, then apologized. “All right, back to Holly’s death. The crime lab is backed up, so we won’t have the full toxicology report for a couple of weeks. The medical examiner can’t start on the autopsy until Tuesday. So I asked the lab to do a preliminary screen on Holly’s blood. Something weird popped.” He lowered his voice, although there was no one near us. “They called me when I was on my way up here. Loquin, heard of it?”

  “It’s an antibiotic,” I said automatically. “I thought the FDA pulled that sucker from the market.”

  “Loquin got a black-box warning.” Marla’s voice was authoritative. “It can cause vivid nightmares, hallucinations, tendon tears, and God knows what else.”

  Tom shifted his weight on the grass, then looked first at me, then at Marla. “Neither one of you is still married to a doctor, but you’re still current on Med Wives 101? I’m impressed. Anyway, Loquin doesn’t come in liquid form. It’s in pills only. And it was in Holly’s system. From the reports we’re getting about nightmares, it was probably in everyone else’s system, too.”

  I asked, “So . . . if it doesn’t come in liquid form, are you thinking Loquin was in the food from last night? Could an antibiotic kill Holly?”

  “No idea,” said Tom. “I don’t suppose we have any of the leftovers that we could test.”

  Marla shook her head. “People took their own serving dishes home. There wasn’t much food left, really. I put a lot down the disposal. Patsie Boatfield and I washed the plates and flatware, and tossed the plastic cups. Even doing all that took forever. I mean, you all could check my trash . . .”

  “We will.” Tom gave me a questioning look.

  I said, “I didn’t pack up any leftovers, remember? I was falling through Holly’s deck.”

  Tom pressed his fingers into his temples. “Goldy, do you have a list of who was supposed to bring what last night?”

  “In my computer,” I said. “But you know everyone, and I do mean everyone, was in and out of Marla’s kitchen, including that weird artist guy nobody seemed to know. I don’t suppose anything about him popped, as in a cell-phone photo?”

  Tom said, “Nope. Anybody else around the food? Someone who wasn’t at the party?”

  I thought back. “Neil Unger made an unannounced visit Thursday, when Julian and I were working on the party prep. He sent Julian out to give his driver something to eat, while he insisted my computer had a virus, and I had to check it that minute.”

  “Was there food out? Food you weren’t watching while you did a virus scan?”

  I closed my eyes. “Yes. Julian had made the second batch of chile relleno tortas, but hadn’t put them in the oven. Neil was ranging around the kitchen, opening and shutting cabinets. I just thought he was nervous.” I shook my head.

  “Nothing came up concerning that message on Holly’s phone, either. Even though it was from an untraceable cell, our guys are working with the phone company now, trying to pinpoint where the call came from. They should be able to tell within a two-block area.”

  “Oh, technology,” I said. “I don’t suppose George or anyone else mentioned sending a text?”

  Tom shook his head. “We’re still working on the carton the collage came in. So far, we’ve only established that it was mailed from a nonchain shipping store in Capitol Hill. Our guys got the owner out of bed in the wee hours. The place doesn’t have a security camera. We showed the owner the box with his mailing tag. He checked in his computer, and he said he had no idea who had sent it, because the customer paid in cash.”

  “Did you get a description of the customer? Male? Female?”

  Tom
said, “Nope. We don’t know anything about who shipped the carton.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “Clarkson Shipping, down near the cathedral. We talked to the owner at length. He has ten temporary employees. Our team is trying to locate any of them who would have seen someone mail an oversize box. So far, nothing.” He eyed me knowingly. “Miss G., Marla needs to take you home so you can get some rest. And by that I mean rest, in bed, without going anywhere outside the house. Boyd will follow.”

  “But what about Father Pete?” I asked.

  “I promise I’ll call you once we know something.” When I pursed my lips, he said, “I swear.”

  Tom took my hands and helped get me upright. I didn’t want to leave St. Luke’s. But under the circumstances, I didn’t want to stay, either.

  At home, Arch and Gus rushed down the stairs when Marla and I walked through the front door. Julian, who’d been working in the kitchen, came out to greet us.

  “Father Pete, Father Pete,” Arch said in a rush. “How is he?”

  “One of Tom’s people came to the house, asking questions,” Gus supplied. With toast-brown hair, dark brown eyes, and the ghost of freckles, Gus looked so much like Arch—or at least, like Arch before he’d shaved his head—it always made me do a double take.

  “He told us Father Pete had been hurt,” Julian explained. “Hurt badly. But he didn’t say what happened. He just wanted to know if any of us had talked to Father Pete when he called this morning, if it sounded as if he was with anybody, if his voice showed stress, that kind of thing.” Julian shook his head. “But when I saw the call was from the church, I didn’t pick up.”

  “Hurt badly how?” Arch asked breathlessly. “Is he going to make it?”

  Marla raced to the first-floor bathroom, slammed the door, and began crying. The boys gaped at me, stricken. I said, “Somebody attacked Father Pete. We think he’s going to make it. We hope.”

  “Attacked him?” Julian pressed. “Father Pete was a boxer—”

  I made my voice very quiet. “Listen, you cannot tell anyone this.” When all three of them nodded, I said, “Somebody stabbed him. He was breathing when we got there, but just barely. Whoever knifed him also killed Kathie Beliar. She was the one driving the van that looked like mine.”

  For a moment, we stood in the hallway. We were trying to take it in. Marla, snuffling, came out of the bathroom.

  “Boss,” Julian said gently, “you look as if you’re in a lot of pain. Please go lie down.” When I hesitated, he said, “I’m making vegetarian lasagna for us tonight. Plus salad and bread. There’s going to be plenty for all of us.” He cocked his head. “Please go up.”

  So I went. Marla joined Julian in the kitchen, while Gus and Arch said they would be in Arch’s room. They promised not to get onto the Internet. I knew they would want to talk about who could have been able to get the drop on Father Pete. I was so tired, and in such exquisite pain, that I couldn’t run my mind back over Marla’s and my discovery and make much out of it.

  I didn’t think I’d fall asleep, but I did. When I awoke, the luscious scent of cooking food was wafting up the stairs. But what all the psychologists say about insights coming when you’re relaxed had happened. I’d thought of something. Or rather, I’d realized it.

  The man at the party, the uninvited guest. The artist in the odd clothes. When I’d started out in catering, I’d done a party for him, or rather, I’d done an event where he’d been present. I remembered him now, standing in the corner, looking forlorn.

  The party had been at a gallery, and very few people had shown up. The artist whose work was being exhibited had been such a severe introvert, he hadn’t been out chatting with patrons, or with anyone, for that matter. Whatever the opposite of charismatic was, that man was it.

  I’d realized something else. That man, that artist, did work sort of similar to Holly’s. Where her portrait-collages were intimate, comprehensible, and commercial, this man had decorated his pieces with slashes and drips of paint, as well as scribbles of calligraphy. At his own show, he’d looked miserable.

  And I knew his name: Yurbin.

  I put in a call to Tom’s cell and left a message. I felt frustrated that there wasn’t more I could do, but I’d been warned to do nothing, at least for now. I sighed.

  In the kitchen, I asked if anyone had heard anything about Father Pete. He was in a coma, Marla said. The sheriff’s department was keeping a tight lid on all other information about his condition. We would know more later. I called up to Arch and Gus that if they wanted to shower, now was the time. I couldn’t stand around doing nothing, so I laid the table. Marla poured Cabernet Sauvignon for Julian, me, and herself. Maybe the wine would take the edge off my pain, both physical and psychological.

  I hadn’t had a chance to ask Marla about Yurbin, had barely had a chance to sip the wine, when the phone rang. It was a woman from the diocese, saying she’d been called about Father Pete. She’d talked to our senior warden, and the diocese was sending a supply priest for the next day’s service. She was calling me because the warden had said that I was catering and organizing some kind of fund-raiser for St. Luke’s that night. The diocesan calendar said that even though we were slated to be grilling outside, the main part of the dinner was supposed to take place inside the church. Shouldn’t the whole thing be canceled?

  “It should not be canceled,” I said firmly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said politely, “but the sheriff’s department has said we cannot plan anything to be held inside St. Luke’s itself until they have finished with their investigation. The service is going to be held outside, in the meadow near the church. But that won’t work for the dinner. We simply cannot defy—”

  “We won’t defy anything. We can have the event at my conference center. I’ll send out a mass e-mail to the congregation, announcing the change in venue.” News embargo or no news embargo, the way information raced around Aspen Meadow, the fact that Father Pete had been stabbed would probably reach numerous parishioners before they even logged onto their computers. “But we need to have this dinner. Father Pete would have wanted us to.”

  “Should the supply priest stay for the dinner at your conference center, then?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” I said, and gave the time for the dinner, as well as directions to the center. As soon as I got off the phone, I sent out a carefully worded e-mail to the St. Luke’s congregation. I said that Father Pete was in the hospital, and owing to unforeseen circumstances, the fund-raiser for the columbarium would be at my conference center. Directions and my cell-phone number were attached.

  I stared at my computer, thinking. Apart from a few special events, the center was closed for most of the winter. I had opened back up at the beginning of June, when a cleaning crew had come in. Since then, we’d had two weddings and another visit from the cleaners. I’d wanted to have the boys’ birthday party there, but Marla had insisted on throwing the shindig at her new place. She’d thought the kids would want to swim in the pool, play volleyball, and pitch horseshoes, that all those activities would put them in a great mood for the beginning of summer vacation. And the guests had done all those things. But the conclusion of the party had put a horrid end to that whole good-mood thing.

  When Arch and Gus, freshly showered and changed, burst into the kitchen, they demanded to be a part of whatever was going on. Well, what was going on?

  I knew one thing: I needed to get away from the house. We all did. I had that major in psychology, didn’t I? I felt a twinge of guilt, as I’d promised Tom I would rest and take it easy. But staying at home meant I would, as we say in our business, stew. On the other hand, if we went over to the center, and everyone worked, cleaning, setting tables, doing prep for the dinner the next night, and having dinner there, we would feel as if we were working to help Father Pete.

  So I told Julian, Marla, and the boys that we were going to have to take the fixings for our dinner that night, and the church meal the
next, to the center.

  Marla cast a longing glance at the lasagna Julian was now covering with foil. “After I was up late last night, please don’t tell me you want me to do more cleaning.”

  “You had Patsie Boatfield right there in your kitchen, and she helped you wash those seemingly endless piles of dishes,” I replied cheerfully. “And anyway, what do you think this catering biz is all about? But no, there will be very little cleaning, just dusting and mopping and—” I stopped when she looked stricken. “I’m kidding. But listen,” I said, to soften the idea. “What we’re doing is what Father Pete would have wanted. Would want,” I corrected myself.

  Julian went out to Boyd’s car, which had attached itself to our driveway like a shadow, to tell him where we were off to next.

  Before long we had my van, which Marla was going to drive, filled with the foodstuffs for the church’s fund-raiser, which was supposed to have been a prime steak cookout—with veggie burgers available. Having lots of people standing around a grill is always very sociable, and feels festive, Father Pete and I had agreed. Everyone was then supposed to have gone into the church to hear about planning their funeral and donating to the columbarium.

  I sighed. The best-laid plans, and all that.

  Julian was taking his Rover and the lasagna for that night; Arch and Gus followed in the Passat; Boyd was behind them. I left word with Tom’s voice mail of our plan. Each one of us had a charged cell phone, I concluded, so please call if he heard anything about Father Pete.

  “Have you ever heard of an artist named Yurbin?” I asked, once it was just Marla and me.

  “Yurbin? No, should I have?” Marla asked. “Is he an artist I needed to start collecting fifteen years ago, if only I’d known?”

  “I catered a reception for a show of his at a gallery once. When I was just starting out in the catering business.”

  “And this is important because? I’m sorry, I can’t think on an empty stomach, especially one that’s been traumatized.”

  “I’m pretty sure Yurbin was the uninvited guest who showed up at your place last night. He’s an artist. A collage artist.”