The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Well,” said Tom over my shoulder, “if the boys need a sugar rush to get started on their trail building, they’ll have it.”

  “Can you check to see if we have applesauce in the pantry?”

  “We do. I’ll put some out in a bowl.”

  Arch and Gus’s thrashing around upstairs was my signal to put the toast into the oven, along with the sliced Canadian bacon. Julian, Tom, and I quickly poured the juice. When the doorbell rang, Tom said, “Don’t let anybody but Jones in.”

  It was indeed Sergeant Jones, who’d come in her own prowler. I made her regular drip coffee—I’d learned my lesson about coffee-for-cops—then pulled shots of espresso and poured cream on top for Marla, who arrived at half-past seven, complaining that it was too early for anyone to be up. She sported a bright green top, blue pants, sapphire barrettes in her hair, and green flats.

  “I wanted to wake myself up with color,” she said by way of explanation. I handed her her iced latte and noticed her eyes were twinkling. “But I didn’t even need my outfit to cheer me up, because I checked my voice mail. A country-club friend left a message for me last night. You’ll never guess.” When I didn’t, she went on, “Ophelia Unger has hired an attorney from Brewster’s firm to go after her dear old dad for fraud.”

  Tom chuckled. I shook my head. I certainly hoped at least one financial criminal in this nation was going to be held accountable for his actions.

  I said, “I wonder if somebody in law enforcement could demand a DNA sample from Neil. It’s still possible he’s Drew’s biological father, and that Holly threatened him and tried to get money out of him, and that he tried to get rid of both her and Drew.”

  “Because,” Marla said triumphantly, “that might really get him into boiling water with The Guild.”

  Tom sighed but said nothing.

  The cinnamon toast emerged crusty and perfect, and everyone except Marla agreed it was the best. She held up her hand in a gesture of forbearance and said simply, “Carbs. No can do.”

  We finished eating around ten to eight. I looked at the detritus in the kitchen—the toast crusts, the few remaining slices of Canadian bacon, the puddle of applesauce—not to mention all the dishes and cups. I was worried about getting everything cleaned up before we left.

  Julian, as usual, read my mind. “Boss? Let me do the dishes.”

  “No—”

  “Wait.” Julian waggled his eyebrows, Groucho Marx–style. “I’ll do it in exchange for some information.”

  Intrigued, I leaned forward, as did Marla, nosy as ever. “What?”

  “Do you know if Ophelia Unger and her first fiancé made a clean break?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “they did. But she was still broken up about it, and that led her into the arms of Bob Rushwood. And we all know how that ended up.”

  “All right, then,” said Julian. “Ophelia seems like a together person who knows her own mind now. I have money and don’t need any from her. So . . . can you find out if she would be willing to go out with me?”

  24

  Tom offered to drive my van, and I gladly accepted. Marla sat in back, nursing a second latte.

  The cool morning boasted a crystalline blue sky, with snow visible on the far mountains. A breeze had swept away the pollen and now broke the light on the lake into shards. I twisted around to get a look at Holly’s house above the water. The collapsed deck above the rocks had the appearance of a half-done construction project. The crash from the deck had also taken out part of the outdoor staircase to the lake. I sighed. We would have to go back into the place before the memorial service, to see if we could dig up photos to display . . .

  I veered away from that thought as we descended the interstate. The meadow grass on both sides of the road went from barely emerging to neon green. That was the difference between eight thousand feet above sea level and six thousand. Late spring in the mountains was a long-arriving affair.

  Tom turned onto the road between Golden and Boulder, which runs along a geographical formation called the Hogback. That’s what it looks like: the razor-spined exoskeleton of a wild hog. Maybe other states had hogbacks, too, but this was our hogback, and it had two distinguishing features, aside from the aforementioned razoring. The first was, you could hardly get any cell-phone reception when you were driving along it. The second was that there was a great white M painted on one of the mountains rising above Golden, home to the Colorado School of Mines—hence the M. When Arch was five, he’d asked if the whole alphabet was written across the country. The Jerk had told him that it was a stupid question, and Arch had begun to suck his thumb.

  “Now that just pisses me off,” said Marla. Something hit my back, and I realized it was my friend flinging her cell phone. “Oops, sorry, Goldy. My aim isn’t too good. I mean, I’m trying to hold my latte, too.”

  “Who were you trying to reach?” I asked.

  “Ophelia Unger, to see if she would go out with Julian. But I couldn’t get any stupid reception along this stupid hogback.”

  “Marla,” I said, “she’s been through a lot of trauma. She lost her first fiancé, had to deceive her father, then was stalked and spied on by Bob Rushwood. At the very least, she’ll need a good therapist. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m not saying they have to get married, for God’s sake,” Marla argued. “But she could help him with, you know, direction. He could give her loyalty and trustworthiness, both of which have been sorely lacking in her life.”

  “Loyalty and trustworthiness,” I muttered, then closed my eyes.

  Tom put his hand on my knee. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Fine.”

  “What’s going on?” Marla asked, her voice suddenly threaded with concern.

  “Oh, I was just remembering when the Jerk used to yell at Arch. I was thinking about fathers telling their offspring they’re not good enough. The Jerk did it to Arch, and Neil Unger did it to Ophelia.”

  “Ophelia was older,” Marla said authoritatively. “Neil probably didn’t hurt Ophelia’s confidence as much as the Jerk hurt Arch’s. And of course,” she added quickly, “Arch is doing great now.”

  “I keep thinking there should have been something I could have done.”

  “Miss G.,” Tom murmured.

  “You did do something,” Marla said. “You kicked his ass to the curb. As did I.”

  “But apparently he didn’t learn,” I said.

  “Neither did you,” Marla replied tartly, “if you’re going to replay this tape of ‘Oh, there should have been something I could have done.’ ”

  “All right, all right.”

  Marla’s phone pinged, indicating reception. She had to scrabble around on the car floor to find it. I smiled as she asked one of her pals if she had Ophelia Unger’s cell number.

  Tom asked, “Where do you want to go first, ladies?”

  “Mane Street,” I said. “The salon. If we get there before clients start flocking in, we should have a better chance of seeing Wendy.”

  We took off for Mane Street, which was actually on Pearl Street.

  Pearl was clogged with parked cars, so Tom searched for a place on Pine.

  “Is this Wendy character even expecting us?” asked Marla. “Because I’m trying to figure out if we should come back over here for lunch. There are some good places to eat on Pearl.”

  “I left a message on the salon voice mail,” I said.

  “That does not reassure me,” said Marla. “What if she doesn’t get in until later?”

  As we walked to Mane Street, Tom said he would wait outside. “It would be better if you all just chatted with her. If I come in, it adds a whole law enforcement dimension to this thing that I’m not sure you want.”

  “Just chat,” I said, for clarification.

  “Yup,” said Tom.

  “Okay, Marla. Here’s our story: We’re planning the memorial service for Holly—”

  “Which we are,” Marla said.

 
; “We . . . can’t find Holly’s address book, let’s say. The cops have it, but never mind that. We’ll say we want all her friends to be notified of the service. And there was a certain someone she was going to tell us about, but died before she could. We were wondering if Wendy knows who that is. We’ll also try to find out about other issues in Holly’s life, like the child support thing.”

  “I tell my colorist everything,” Marla said. “And she’s the best source of gossip I have. So maybe this isn’t such a long shot.”

  “Let us pray.”

  Inside, Wendy Williams was waiting for us beside the reception desk, where a Pails for Trails bucket was perched next to the sign-in sheet. One thing I had to hand to Bob Rushwood: the man had market penetration. Wendy was as petite and pretty as I remembered, with wide brown eyes, a smattering of freckles, and stray blond strands artfully spilling out of a ballerina-style topknot. She did not look a bit older than she had seven years ago, when Holly had dragged me out of my bed and my blues, so we could have a spa day. Wendy cocked her hip.

  “I remember you,” she said, pointing a purple-lacquered nail in my direction and smiling. “You were Holly’s good friend. She brought you down to Cherry Creek right after a big snow. She always spoke so lovingly about you.”

  “Back then,” I said, “you were her colorist—”

  “I was her colorist until she died.” Wendy inhaled, and her breath caught.

  I introduced Marla, whom Wendy said she also knew from Holly’s description.

  There was an awkward pause until Wendy asked in a low voice, “How’s Drew doing?”

  “Not so hot,” I said. “He’s in Alaska now, with Holly’s sister.”

  Marla pressed her lips together. This conversation was proving to be more difficult than I imagined. Finally Marla said, “We’re putting together Holly’s memorial service.”

  Wendy asked, “When is it? I’d love to come.”

  “Um, we’re not sure yet.” Marla faltered. “Our priest is in the hospital. We’re . . . trying to compile a complete list of people who should be notified. After lunch, we’ll be . . . looking for her address book at her rental . . . but we thought maybe you would know more than what we could find.”

  “Sure,” said Wendy. “How can I help?”

  “Well,” Marla continued, “this past Friday, the day Holly died, she was at my house for a birthday party for Drew and Goldy’s son, Arch.”

  Wendy shook her head. “I knew she was looking forward to that. I did her hair right beforehand. She wasn’t going to invite George and Lena. Did they show up anyway?”

  “They did,” I said, surprised.

  “She hated them.”

  “So we gathered,” I said. “They had a bit of a blowup at the party.”

  “Poor Drew.” Wendy crinkled her nose. “Holly didn’t like George or Lena, or Edith either, for that matter. Well, can you blame her, after the way they treated her?”

  I nodded regretfully. Wendy knew about the cutoff of child support? Holly, that keeper of secrets, had told her that? She hadn’t even told us. Well, as Marla had said, Holly had been ashamed.

  “Anyway,” I said, “getting back to this memorial service. We really do want to include everyone who meant something to her. George and Lena and even Edith will probably come, but so what? Here’s the thing. We found out that Holly had a boyfriend when she lived in Denver, a long time ago. We heard she adored him, and we’d like to include him. Do you know who the guy is?”

  When Wendy shook her head, a few hairs flew free of the topknot. “Sorry. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend when she lived in Denver. You mean, when she went back to art school?”

  “Yes,” Marla said, a bit too eagerly, I thought.

  “She didn’t mention anyone by name,” Wendy said, and frowned.

  “Well,” said Marla, “can you think of any man she was . . . involved with . . . who would want to be invited to the service?”

  Wendy held up fingers in a V sign. At first I thought she meant victory. But actually, she meant two. “Holly had a thing for two different guys over the years.” She looked over her shoulder, as if another employee of the salon might be eavesdropping. “One of them has a company that supplies uniforms for the salon. Name’s Neil Unger. Big shot. Wealthy. Know him?”

  “We do,” said Marla. Again I had the unwelcome memory of Neil Unger slamming around my kitchen Thursday morning. “I don’t think he’d be inclined to come to the service,” Marla went on, “but you never know.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Wendy.

  “He’s just a jerk,” I said. “Who’s the other guy?”

  “I can’t remember his last name, but he was a shrink who slept with patients. Warren something.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Marla.

  A couple of women came into the salon, chattering. Wendy said quietly, “I’m going to have to wrap this up. I can call you later, if you want.”

  “It’s okay.” But a feeling of desperation gripped me. “Right before she died, Holly told Marla and me that she was in a relationship mess. We have no idea who she was in the mess with, or if it was a big or a small mess. But we’d like to invite that guy, whoever he is, to the service.”

  Wendy shook her head. “Not a clue. Sorry.”

  We duly reported what Wendy had told us to Tom as the three of us strolled back up to the van.

  “So the hairdresser thinks Holly was hooking up with both Neil Unger and Dr. Warren,” he said.

  “Unfortunately,” I said.

  Marla commented, “This detection work can be such a slog.”

  Tom did not say, Do you think? But I knew him well enough to know that it was going through his head.

  When we parked in the conference-center lot, the wind whipping off the massive, steep Flatirons caused me to shudder. The center itself was a pale blue lacy Victorian structure whose steps creaked as the three of us ascended. A loose shutter banged against an exterior wall. Marla jumped.

  “I love this building,” said Tom, once we were inside. “A true antique.”

  “Are there no conferences today?” I asked a young blond woman, who gave us a bright, toothy smile as we approached the mammoth wooden desk of the beadboard-paneled lobby. One of the red Pails for Trails adorned the desktop, along with a pad of paper and a sign-in sheet. I concentrated my gaze on the young woman, whose name tag announced that she was Kimberly. I would have been willing to lay money on her being a summer school student at the University of Colorado.

  “Our next conference doesn’t start until tomorrow,” she said, the bright smile still in place. “We were closed for a few days, to get everything ready for our summer season. I can get you a brochure—”

  “No, thank you,” I said, smiling to match Kimberly’s sunny expression.

  Marla exhaled. “We just need to talk to a person in charge.”

  “You can’t talk to a person in charge unless you have an appointment,” Kimberly cheerily replied, unoffended.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said, “we’ve come over from Aspen Meadow to speak to the person who organizes the conferences.”

  “Organizes the conferences?”

  “Whoever keeps the files,” I said, “on past conferences. We need to know more than who attended. We need to know who all the vendors were, who your staff people were, what activities attendees enrolled in, that kind of thing. And if you all have any photos of the goings-on.”

  “Um, I don’t understand,” said Kimberly.

  I turned to Marla and asked if I could speak to her for a second. Tom followed us to the blue-painted door, but said nothing. Marla began to whisper that Kimberly was incompetent.

  Tom said, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  I said to Marla, “Now might be the time for you to break out some of that cash.”

  Tom said, “So now I see how you two work.”

  Marla turned on her heel and strutted back to the reception desk. Tom and I had to hurry to keep up with her. Kimberly wasn�
��t smiling anymore.

  “Kimberly!” said Marla, as she reached for her wallet. Kimberly eyed her warily. Maybe she was afraid Marla was going for a gun. But no. Instead, she pulled out an impressive wad of cash. “Here’s about a hundred bucks, give or take. Who’s the most senior person who’s currently here?”

  Kimberly took the proffered bills, and smiled again. “Thank you. That would be Mrs. Peterson. She’s just dropped her kids off at child care and is in her office now.”

  “Great,” said Marla, as she wrote on a handy pad of paper on the desk. “So while we’re talking to her, could you get us those lists my friend was just mentioning? We need to know the staff people who worked here over the past twenty years, the activities they led, as well as the names of the attendees who signed up for those activities, plus all the vendors. And we’d love any photos.”

  “Twenty years?” Kimberly said faintly, as the smile evaporated once more.

  Marla grinned. “You all have computers, don’t you?”

  “I can’t do that without permission,” Kimberly crisply replied.

  “How about this,” I said, attempting to be conciliatory. “Could you please show us to Mrs. Peterson’s office?” I asked. Kimberly, who had pocketed Marla’s cash but was no longer smiling, led us down a hallway to Mrs. Peterson’s office, where she knocked. She said she would just be a moment, as she wanted to tell Mrs. Peterson why we were there. The dark wooden door had an old-fashioned piece of opaque glass in the upper section, and its hinges creaked when Kimberly swung it open.

  Moments later, she came out and said in singsong fashion, “Good luck!”

  Tom looked at me. “I may have to go official,” he said, “on your long shot.”

  I said, “Thanks.”

  Mrs. Peterson, fiftyish and wiry, with a long nose and thin lips, had iron-gray hair pulled into a severe bun. She sat tall behind a desk that was a monument to organization: there were no stray papers in flyaway piles, no written reminders taped to the desk lamp, no mementos of trips anywhere. There was only a computer, which was turned off, and a closed gray file.

  I looked at Mrs. Peterson, puzzled. This woman needed child care? I glanced around at the wall behind us: neat rows of photographs of two Asian children, from infancy to about age seven, were ranged across it. If Mr. Peterson existed, there was no photographic evidence of him.