The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “He’s trying to cover all the bases.”

  “So the sheriff’s department sent you down here?”

  “No, sorry. Because we were Holly’s friends, we’re asking some informal questions of people who might have known her. Our problem is that, you know, with Holly caring so much about her body, we’re . . . mystified that she would have a coronary. We thought maybe some of the parishioners here, at her former church, might remember her as you seem to.”

  Nan exhaled. “Of the people who are left here, she knew me the best.”

  Marla said, “I’ll buy that genuine Swarovski crystal rosary if you can give us any details about Holly that we—”

  Nan drew herself up. “Are you trying to bribe me? Will you buy me an ice-cream cone if I give you the name of Holly’s boyfriend?”

  “Marla.” I turned to her and opened my eyes wide. “Could you please go stand next to Boyd?”

  “I’d like to see some identification, please,” Nan said crisply. “I have no idea who you are. I’ve never seen you before, and now you’re spinning some tale about a young woman whom I held dear.”

  Finally, finally, Boyd shuffled forward. He pulled out his wallet and offered his sheriff’s department ID card, which Nan read with rapt attention. Boyd refused to meet my eyes. In a low voice, he said, “Ma’am, Miss . . . Nan, we would appreciate anything you could tell us about Holly. The name of any special male friend would be of particular interest.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Nan. She turned away from him and began purposefully ringing up my purchases. “I don’t know any details. Holly seemed like the kind of person who kept a lot of secrets. All I know is that, years ago, she came in one time, and she’d been crying. She always looked so pretty, and she took such good care of herself. Not on this occasion. Her eyes were bloodshot and her skin was splotched, as if she’d been sobbing not just for hours but for days. I comforted her, held her, tried to say encouraging words. But it was all for naught.”

  “How long ago was this?” asked Boyd.

  “Somewhere around eight years ago?” said Nan. “I’m not sure of the time frame. All I am certain of is that she said the man she’d adored, the man she was going to marry, the love of her life . . .” She stopped talking and swallowed. “He had dumped her.”

  Nan seemed on the verge of tears, and resolutely shook her head when I asked if she remembered anything else. I didn’t want to upset her further, so I paid for my purchases and thanked her. Then the three of us left the shop.

  “Dumped her?” said Marla, once we were back in the car. “Who would dump Holly?”

  “I don’t know,” I said as I accelerated toward our next stop, Clarkson Shipping. “But at least we have confirmation of one of our theories as to why she moved to Denver after the divorce. It wasn’t just to go back to art school.”

  22

  I wanted to go find out where Yurbin lived, to see if he would answer some questions. But first, I wanted to check if I could establish whether he was indeed the one who’d sent the box with the collage in it to Holly. Tom had already told me that this could be a fruitless errand. But sometimes people will talk to a couple of civilian women, when the presence of cops intimidates them. At least, that was the slender theory I was working on.

  The short young woman working at Clarkson Shipping wore no name tag. She had glossy red curls and when she tilted her head and smiled at us, she revealed crooked teeth. Her freckled brow furrowed as she tried to answer Marla’s questions. I looked around. Not only had the owner not spent money on surveillance cameras, he hadn’t wasted any dough on decorators. The spare, dirty-white, linoleum-floored space, with a minimum of racks displaying packing envelopes and bubble wrap, was meant to discourage lingering.

  The redhead searched through computer screens to check on a delivery to Holly’s rental address. Yes, she said triumphantly, there it was, a cash transaction. A line began forming behind us; I tried to ignore it. No, the redhead said when we pressed, she was not aware of a tall, buff, forlorn, balding man bringing in that particular package. They sent out big boxes every day, all over the country. In fact, she could think of no tall, muscled guy, between forty and fifty, ever coming in.

  Belatedly, she asked, “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

  “No,” said Boyd, proffering his ID. In a low voice, he said, “We’re investigating a homicide, and need help. We’re trying to identify someone, and we’d appreciate anything you could tell us.” He turned to me and lifted one eyebrow, indicating that, of course, the sheriff’s department had already been here, and had procured exactly the same information. But they knew where Yurbin lived. We didn’t.

  No, the redhead went on, the sender did not have an account with them. No, they did not keep track of senders. And of course, what we already knew: no, they did not have a surveillance camera.

  We must have looked extremely frustrated. Marla had her hand on her purse, as if to signal that she would try to bribe the redhead, too, if she thought it would get us anywhere. Boyd had thought this expedition was pointless, but now even his shoulders were slumped in defeat.

  Marla let out a particularly loud sigh. The line of package-sending hopefuls behind us was lengthening. The redhead groaned. Either she was relenting or just wanted to get rid of us. “Look,” she said finally, pointing out the dingy front window. “Try over there. Try Chris. He does a lot of errands for people in the neighborhood, and he’s in here all the time. He might be able to help you.”

  “Over where?” Marla demanded.

  “Cathedral Grocery,” said the redhead. “Ask for Chris.” She called out, “Next!”

  Dismissed, we spilled out of Clarkson Shipping and attempted to see what the redhead had been talking about. And there it was, right across the street: a corner store. A dusty sign with gold lettering emblazoned on a dark blue background read CATHEDRAL GROCERY. A newer notice put up next to that one declared AND CAFÉ!

  “That remnant of yesteryear,” Marla said under her breath. “The neighborhood grocery store. Ah, and there are even tables and chairs out on the sidewalk. I’m suddenly starving. Who wants lunch?”

  The three of us sprinted across Clarkson, a one-way street that could bring sudden streams of traffic. The Cathedral Grocery, run by an Asian family of father, mother, teenage son, and teenage daughter, had not only the standard-issue shelves of canned goods and ramen noodles, but also bins of fresh produce: tomatoes, lettuce, string beans, bok choy, mushrooms, and three varieties of onions.

  “Your mouth is hanging open,” Marla said to me. “Come on, let’s sit, order, and find this Chris character.”

  “Okay.”

  In typical cop fashion, Boyd had picked out a table in the corner, facing the door. When we joined him, the Asian boy stepped up quickly and handed us menus.

  I said, “What do you recommend?”

  “Bánh mì,” he replied without hesitation.

  “Great,” said Marla. “Beer, Boyd?”

  He shook his head. “On duty.”

  We settled on three iced coffees. Marla thanked our server and he whisked away.

  “Tell me what we’re having for lunch,” said Boyd, his tone resigned. He reluctantly set aside his menu. He had the look of a man who’d really wanted a BLT.

  “Vietnamese-style sandwich,” I replied. “You’re going to love it.”

  It wasn’t long before the daughter of the shop’s family brought us small, crispy baguettes bulging with thin slices of grilled lemongrass pork and English cucumber, plus piles of pickled carrot, daikon, and onion, all smeared with a sauce of mayonnaise zipped up with soy sauce and chopped jalapeño. It only took Boyd one tentative bite before he proclaimed it delicious.

  I thanked the young woman and looked up at her thoughtfully. “Do you have someone who works here named Chris?”

  She nodded and said he was in the back, taking inventory. Did we want to talk to him?

  “Very much,” I replied.

  “Is there someth
ing wrong?” she asked anxiously.

  “Not at all,” I said, pointing to Marla and Boyd, who had their mouths full. “We just need to talk to Chris for a few minutes. About a delivery.”

  We ate our sandwiches, drank our coffee, and waited.

  The shop owner himself came over for our plates. “Chris is almost finished,” he assured us. “He can’t stop something when he’s in the middle. When he’s done, he has a couple of deliveries. Is that all right?”

  “May we see him before the deliveries?” Marla asked, with a sweet smile.

  “Absolutely.”

  It wasn’t long before a short, portly fellow, maybe in his early twenties, stepped up to our table. His complexion was splotched. The sides of his scalp were shaved, with a profusion of blond curls on top. He said, “Do I know you?” His tone was polite, but puzzled.

  I asked him if he could sit down. He said he was sorry, but he had work to do. I took a deep breath and asked if he ever picked up parcels for folks in the neighborhood, and shipped them. He gave us a long look. Then he shifted his glance away and said he did, sometimes. Marla, sensing an opportunity to trade money for information with a person who might be willing to accept it, leaned over and snagged her wallet.

  “We want to talk to an artist named Yurbin,” she said. “We think he might live around here. Chris? Let me see your palm.”

  When Chris held out his callused paw, Marla put a pile of twenties into it. Boyd closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Holy cow, lady!” Chris exclaimed. “What’s all this for?”

  “Information,” I said quietly, as I didn’t want Marla plunging ahead. “A friend of ours died. It’s a . . . suspicious death. The day she unexpectedly passed away, a large cardboard box arrived on her front porch.” I pointed across the street. “It came from Clarkson Shipping. The object inside the box was a collage that might resemble the work of an artist named Yurbin. Do you know him?”

  Despite his earlier refusal, Chris now flopped into the one empty chair at our table. He blushed furiously and groaned. “Yeah, I know him. I deliver his groceries and take him lunch three days a week. I also do the occasional odd job for him.” He hesitated. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Depends,” Boyd said quietly. “Did you do something illegal?”

  “No.” Chris vehemently shook his head. “But I’m the one who takes Yurbin’s monthly packages to Clarkson Shipping. They go to a lady in Aspen Meadow.” He exhaled. “Yurbin told me I couldn’t tell anybody. But then I saw the Furman County Sheriff’s Department cars outside his house a few days ago. So I checked the news online. The boxes went to that Holly lady who they said had died. Are you saying she was murdered?” Chris’s voice cracked. “Is Yurbin a suspect?”

  Boyd pulled out his sheriff’s department ID and laid it on the table. Chris looked at it, then moaned. “We don’t know if he had anything to do with anything,” Boyd said. “But you could help us.”

  “I will,” said Chris. “But he won’t. I mean, I don’t think he would actually hurt somebody. He eats in his house and he makes his art in his house. He’s sort of like a hermit.”

  A hermit who took the trouble to show up uninvited at a birthday party, after which Holly died. A hermit who lawyered up, my brain supplied.

  Boyd pulled out a small notebook and pen. “Does Yurbin own a car?”

  Chris mulled this over. “Yeah, an old VW. I used to take him where he needed to go, because he doesn’t like to drive. So I was surprised to see him go by Friday morning. Yurbin was all hunched over the wheel, like he wasn’t sure he remembered how to pilot a vehicle.”

  Friday had been the day of the party, the day I’d seen someone whom I now suspected was Yurbin in Marla’s neighborhood. The day someone had cut off the supports from underneath Holly’s deck.

  “Did he say why he hadn’t had you take him wherever he wanted to go?” I asked, too sharply.

  “Nope. He called and canceled his Saturday lunch order, though. I took him lunch on Monday. He didn’t mention his little excursion. I don’t know where he went or when he got back. He did seem depressed, though. On Monday.”

  Boyd held his hand up for me to be quiet. “Did you do other errands for Yurbin? Like, say, pick up prescriptions for him?”

  Chris thought about that. “Yeah. I used to go to the drugstore, Downing Drugs, for him, but they went out of business a few months ago. I think he orders his meds online now. Mostly, I just take him his meals and I ship boxes for him.”

  “What sort of medications was Yurbin taking? Does he have an illness?”

  Chris looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I should be talking about someone else’s health stuff, even if you are a cop. I feel like it’s invading his privacy. And he’s a nut about privacy.”

  “Someone else told us he was a diabetic. I’m just trying to confirm that information. So you’re not breaking any confidences.”

  Chris shrugged. “Yeah, he’s on regular meds for diabetes. And last winter, when we got that big snowstorm and the power went off, Yurbin got pneumonia. I had to go back to the drugstore twice for him then, because he said the antibiotic he’d been given was making him feel sick. So he got a prescription from his doctor for a different one.”

  Boyd wrote in his notebook. “Do you by any chance remember the name of Yurbin’s doctor? That might help us.”

  Chris shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Unbelievable,” Marla said under her breath. We were all quiet for a few moments.

  “Okay,” I said. “So. Yurbin is a diabetic who doesn’t like to leave the house. And he loves sweets.”

  Chris’s brow furrowed. “He always wants candy. He said his doctor told him to stick to sugarless sweets. But I’m telling you, unless you’ve got a Snickers bar for him, he won’t let you in. He doesn’t like strangers.”

  “But we’re not strangers to you,” I said cheerfully. “We’re Goldy the caterer, her friend Marla, and Sergeant Boyd of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. All you have to do is introduce us as the catering team that makes fresh homemade gelato, right in your home, no charge.”

  Chris looked dubious, agreed to give it a try, then looked at his watch. “He works out in the afternoons,” he added.

  Aha, I thought. He had looked muscular. “He doesn’t dress as if he cares about his appearance.”

  Chris held up his right index finger. “He doesn’t. But I’m telling you, the man’s a beast. After he’s done his artwork for the morning, he has lunch. Then he lifts weights. He says it gets his mind off sweets. And even if he lets you in, don’t expect hospitality.” He arched an eyebrow at Marla and me. Behind us, Boyd chuckled.

  Boyd insisted on helping Chris schlep his boxes up to the door of Yurbin’s house: a dilapidated two-story, gray-shingled affair. Chris rapped out what sounded like a code on the door.

  “Mr. Yurbin?” he called. “You have some visitors who are going to make you some . . .” Chris gave me a puzzled look. “What is it again?”

  “Genuine gelato,” I supplied.

  There was some shuffling and scraping behind the door, but no voice. Then Yurbin’s voice said, “No, they can’t come in.”

  “I told you,” Chris said noncommittally to Boyd. “And don’t think you can shoot your way through. Yurbin had a metal door installed.”

  “What is he,” Marla asked, “a drug dealer?”

  Boyd said, “We don’t actually shoot our way into houses so much anymore.”

  When Chris grinned, two dimples like commas appeared in his cheeks.

  “Tell him about the gelato,” I urged Chris.

  “This lady out here?” Chris called. “She’s a caterer? She makes this killer gelato that’s okay for your diet! Don’t you want to try some?”

  There was a long pause. Then, “You can bring it in. Tell her and the other two people to go away.”

  “Whoa,” said Marla. “How does he know we’re out here?”

  Boyd pointed at what looked like a mirror set behind a gra
te in the metal door. Then he turned away from the mirror and said in a low voice to Marla and me, “This guy is a hermit who has no social graces. What’s more, you know I can’t question him, because he’s already asked for a lawyer.”

  “You’re not going to question him,” I replied. “We are.”

  “Whatever you get out of him won’t be admissible in court.”

  “I’d rather have you here, and feel safe. Besides, do you think he’s going to cop to a murder during this visit?”

  Boyd shook his head. “You never know.”

  The metal door, meanwhile, squeaked open a few inches. “All right,” came Yurbin’s raspy voice. “Wait!” he exclaimed when he saw me. “You’re the one who gave that party Friday night, the party I was kicked out of! Is this a trick?”

  “No, no,” I said. “We’re here to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” He gripped the edge of the partially open door.

  “Look,” I said patiently, “Holly Ingleby was our friend. She . . . she felt bad for getting you ejected from the party. She told us what a great collage artist and teacher you were—”

  “I simply don’t believe she said that to you,” Yurbin said, his tone bitter.

  Marla trilled over me, “Did you know she had a heart attack and died after the party?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “If you’ll just let us in for a few minutes, we’ll all feel much better. I’ve always wanted to visit the home of a famous artist.”

  “The gelato is to make things up to you,” I continued. “Chris doesn’t know how to make it, so I need to do it. It won’t take long.”

  Finally, finally, he opened the door, but the narrow-eyed skeptical look he gave Marla, Boyd, and me told me he didn’t entirely trust us. Which he shouldn’t have.

  “Since when does it take three people to make gelato?” he asked sarcastically, to which none of us wisely gave an answer.

  I followed Boyd, Chris, and Marla through the spare, neat living room. A set of weights lay racked in one corner. We entered the spare, neat kitchen. Despite their reputation for being slobs, most artists I’d encountered were actually quite well organized, and lived in pristine spaces.