“What do you think you’re doing?” Tom asked me when I appeared on the porch with the wine.
“I’m taking Jack this bottle—”
“Put it back.”
“Can’t I just—?”
“Absolutely not. Y’ever hear of the old saying, ‘Beware the gift giver’?”
“I can give Jack something if I want to!” I retorted. “I just brought him bread this morning!”
“He sees us coming? With you holding that? He’ll think, Here comes Tom the cop with his wife, my godchild, and she’s holding a bottle of wine that she thinks she’s going to pimp me with, so I’ll tell them all the dirt on Doc Finn.”
“Tom!”
“You trust me on this, or not?”
Well, of course I did. I put the bottle back. But I felt my nerves becoming even more frayed … and they’d been unraveling ever since Tom had arrived home.
“Tom, Gertie Girl, come in.” Jack’s tone was grateful as he opened his massive door, a large sculpted oak number that he had picked up at a salvage yard.
And so we entered Jack’s Jumble, as Arch called it. My godfather kept saying he was renovating, but as yet, there were few visible signs of improvement, either on the exterior or the interior. I could see why the persistently rainy weather would have prevented him from putting up new cedar-shake shingle siding, which was what he claimed he intended to do. But on the inside, he had no excuse that I could see. Fishing and carousing tended to derail motivation, in my view.
As we stepped into the gray-walled foyer that still showed the rectangular outlines of the previous owner’s pictures, it was clear Jack hadn’t made much progress. He’d gutted the first floor, so that instead of having a parlor, dining room, and who-knew-what-all Victorian-type rooms, he now had a big, open space. In the far-left corner, he’d put state-of-the-art appliances into what was going to be an open-plan kitchen … but he still had no cabinets or countertops. My feet gritted across the hardwood floors that Jack had uncovered when he’d torn up the old green-and-brown shag carpeting. As far as I knew, Jack had not made a move to refinish the floors, or even to call someone to get an estimate to have them done.
“Thanks for coming over.” He was trying to sound cheerful, but his voice was as forlorn as the long, high-ceilinged room that, he’d told me, would eventually double as both living and dining room. The whole area contained only a few pieces of furniture that Jack had bought from the local secondhand store, while his “good furniture,” as he called it, stayed in storage.
“Sit,” Jack invited us, sweeping his hand toward a threadbare, Victorian-style maroon velvet couch that had seen better days, I guessed, in a brothel. On each side of the couch, and in front of it, stood out-of-context teak Danish-modern tables that, more than the couch, had seen much better days. And then there were the two director’s chairs that looked as if they’d been fished out of a well, back when Orson Welles had been a director.
Tom sat in one of the director’s chairs, while I took my place at the far end of what I affectionately thought of as the johns’ couch.
Tom grinned. “I can see you’ve been keeping your nose to the remodeling grindstone.” He liked Jack, and the feeling was mutual.
“Can’t rush these things,” Jack commented. He gestured to an open bottle of scotch on the table, where there were also, I noted, three glasses, a carafe of water, and an ice bucket. Next to these cocktail fixings was a yellow legal pad and a pen, two lawyerly accoutrements that Jack had never been able to give up. “Drink?”
To my astonishment, Tom replied, “Sure.” I blinked, and tried to catch Tom’s eye. I had never once witnessed him take a drink from someone he wanted to question. He was always circumspect, if not downright wary.
“Gertie Girl?” Jack asked. “Same as usual?”
“With a lot of water, please, Jack. I’ve already had some sherry.”
“Tom?”
“Straight with a bit of ice, thanks, Jack.”
“Well, Tom-boy.” Jack shook his head. “You must really suspect me of doing something.” So, Tom was drinking and Jack was acting suspicious, and I was left to wonder what was going on. Muttering unintelligibly to himself, Jack poured us each a couple of fingers of scotch, added some water and ice to both, and handed them across. “Trying to throw me off guard, eh, Tom? Drink my scotch, see if you can get me to drink more than you do, loosen up my tongue, find out what I know about Doc Finn. Is that it?”
“Hey, neighbor, back off a bit,” Tom replied. He took a long swig of the proffered drink. “I know you were friends with Finn, and I’m sorry he’s gone.” Tom paused. “Goldy said you wanted to talk to me, that’s all.”
“I do.”
When no one said anything, Tom sipped his drink again and said finally, “So, you know anyone who wanted to hurt Doc Finn? Did he have any enemies?”
Jack surprised me again, this time by putting his head in his hands and starting to sob.
“Jack, Jack,” I said. I moved over next to him and put my arms around his heaving shoulders.
“This is my fault,” he howled. “It’s all my fault.”
I looked at Tom helplessly. Tom, in turn, gave me a warning glance that I knew meant—Say nothing, do nothing. But Jack was my godfather, I’d always loved him. For crying out loud, I’d known him before I’d even met Tom. So there was no way I was going to follow Tom’s directive.
“It’s not your fault, Jack,” I protested. “It’s the fault of the person who—”
“Goldy!” Tom shouted.
“Person who what?” Jack asked. He didn’t seem to be crying anymore, and he’d picked up the pen he’d put by the legal pad.
I took a deep breath and settled back into the lumpy couch. In front of the couch was a large picture window that had been put in by a previous owner, so Jack had a perfect view of our house. I resolved to look at our house and say not a word. If Tom and Jack were playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game, I didn’t have a rule book.
“Why is Doc Finn dying all your fault?” Tom asked gently.
“He was murdered, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Tom replied. “Is that your fault?”
Jack shook his head. “It’s too complicated,” he said, his somber mood reasserting itself. He threw down the pen.
“I work all day at complicated,” Tom commented.
“Can you tell me how he was killed?” Jack asked.
“No can do, you know that, Counselor.”
“Gertie Girl?” Jack’s large eyes implored me.
“Don’t start with her, Jack,” Tom said sharply. “Or else we’re going to have to leave. Now tell me why it’s all your fault, okay? Or else tell me who Doc Finn’s enemies were.”
Jack considered. Time stretched out for so long that I finally looked around for a clock. Big problem: this was Jack’s mostly empty house, and there was no clock. He wore a Rolex, so he probably figured he didn’t need another timepiece.
“All right,” Jack said finally. “But if I talk to you, will you tell me what you know?”
Tom said, “Nope.”
“Did someone run him off the road? Shoot him while he was driving?”
Tom shrugged.
Jack exhaled and stared at the legal pad. “I don’t know too much about Finn’s enemies. There were a few women who wanted to get married, and he didn’t.” Jack stopped talking and considered. “You know Finn had retired. But recently, he had a few patients. There … were problems, I don’t know what.”
“What kind of problems?” Tom asked sharply. “Medical problems? Financial problems?”
“I don’t know,” Jack replied, still disconsolate, still staring at the legal pad. “Finn just told me there were problems, and that he was doing some research. But then before I could find out what kind of research, exactly, he stopped answering his home phone and his cell. I went over to his house and banged on the door. No answer there either.”
Tom grunted and refilled his drink. I wondered if he me
ant to rattle Jack by doing this. Ordinarily he’d have taken out his notebook to write down what Jack was saying; I knew that much about my husband.
“How recently was all this, Jack?” Tom asked. “Today’s Friday. When, exactly, did Finn stop answering his home phone and his cell?”
“Why?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what you’re telling me, how it fits with our timeline.”
“What’s your timeline?”
“I’m very tired, Jack,” Tom replied. “Goldy’s even more tired, and she and I both have to get up early tomorrow morning, even though it’s a Saturday.”
“Okay,” Jack said. He set his glass down on the table. “Today’s Friday.” He cast his eyes up to his ceiling. “I was supposed to meet with Finn, let’s see, last night. I didn’t see him or hear from him after yesterday afternoon. I went to his place real late last night, but he wasn’t there. Then this morning, he was supposed to pick me up for the O’Neal wedding, but he didn’t show.”
Tom pondered this. “So you were supposed to meet with Finn last night to find out what kind of research he was doing, and he didn’t show. You called him on both his home phone and his cell, and then you went over to his place. Did you call anybody else, another friend, say, to see where he might be?”
“Nope.”
“After Finn said he was doing some research, he suddenly disappeared and didn’t call. Did you suspect foul play?”
Jack shook his head in frustration. “I didn’t know what to think. Now could you please tell me what is going on?”
“I can’t,” said Tom.
AND SO TOM and I went home. I hugged Jack before we left, and he hugged me back and muttered something about seeing me in the morning.
“Where’re you going with him in the morning?” Tom asked me, once we’d come into our house and put the animals back outside.
“Gold Gulch Spa. Jack’s insisting on coming. Why? You don’t think I’m in danger when I’m with him, do you?”
“No,” Tom said thoughtfully. “I’m just trying to figure out what he’s not telling us. There’s something, I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“He’s secretive, you know that. He … loves puzzles. He used to give me all kinds of different ones when I was growing up. Plus, he’s a risk junkie. Maybe he’s sure he can figure out what happened to Doc Finn … on his own.”
“Oh, man, that’s all we need. Another amateur sleuth mucking things up. What do you mean, he’s secretive?”
We moved into the kitchen and sat down.
I said, “I didn’t even know until a week before he got here that he was moving to Aspen Meadow from New Jersey. And that he’d bought that decrepit old place across the street.”
“You didn’t know anything?”
“Nope. And that was only six months ago, as you know. Plus, I think the only reason he told me about the move was that he had told his son, Lucas, what he was doing, and Lucas had had a fit that Jack wasn’t moving across the street from him. So to avert Lucas showing up on our porch and accusing me of trying to steal Jack’s affections, which he’d done before, mind you, Jack calmly called and told me his plans.”
“Huh.” Tom looked around our kitchen and insisted on tidying up. “It’ll give me a chance to think.”
While he was washing dishes, I said, “Listen, Tom, you’ve probably already heard this from six different people—”
Tom turned off the water, wiped his hands, and gave me his full attention. “Go ahead.”
“Well, just some of those questions you were asking Jack…” Tom waited. Finally, I said, “Enemies Doc Finn had? Billie Attenborough didn’t like Doc Finn.”
“Stop while I get my notebook.”
“You know,” I went on, “she always blamed him for losing her first two fiancés. She blamed him loudly.”
“Billie does everything loudly. And,” he added thoughtfully, “you know how nothing is ever her fault? She doesn’t take responsibility for a thing. Everything is always your fault.” When I looked stricken, he said, “No, not you, Miss G. At least, not all the time.” When I frowned, he went on, laughing, “Don’t go getting paranoid on me. Guys down at the department are always saying women are just too sensitive.” This time I narrowed my eyes. “Okay,” Tom concluded, his tone apologetic, “for Billie, everything is always somebody else’s fault.” He closed his notebook. “We’ll check this out, thanks. Now, let me finish these dishes.”
I thanked him and put my feet up on a chair. When the phone rang, it startled me. Quarter after ten? Jack calling to try to get information out of Tom? Billie Attenborough phoning with a new demand?
It was neither. The caller ID said merely, southwest hospital.
“Looks like somebody might be trying to set up one of us,” I commented, and told Tom about the call’s provenance.
“I’ll deal with it.” With wet hands, Tom took the phone. After a moment, he said, “Actually, you want my wife.”
I shot him a murderous glance, but only sang into the phone, “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! Whoever this is, I usually don’t do business this late in the evening!”
“Is this Goldy?” a tentative male voice asked.
“It is.” I wracked my brain to figure out who I knew in Southwest Hospital at the moment. Someone from church? Someone I was supposed to do a party for?
“This is, uh, Norman O’Neal.”
I shook my head. Cecelia O’Neal’s didn’t-want-to-be-irresponsible-anymore ex-dad. “Norman. Last time I saw you, you didn’t look too good.”
“Okay, yeah, sorry. It’s just that I can’t remember today very well. I’m down here in the hospital, and I can’t figure out what I did to get here. I’m not sick, or at least, I don’t think I am. One of the nurses told me I busted up my daughter’s wedding, and I’m really hoping that isn’t true.”
“Well—”
“Oh, God, I did bust up Cecelia’s wedding, didn’t I?”
“Not really. You just busted up the cake. I am curious, though. Why are you calling me? Why not call Cecelia if you want to apologize?”
“She’s on her honeymoon, I guess, and her mother isn’t answering. I, I’m desperate. I looked in the yellow pages for caterers and churches in Aspen Meadow, and your name sort of sounded familiar, so I called you.”
“But why—”
“Oh, right, right. Well, to make a long story short, I want to get back into my daughter Cecelia’s life.”
I’d majored in psychology, and I knew Carl Rogers would have wanted me to spit that right back at him. And anyway, I didn’t know what else to do. “You want to get back into your daughter’s life,” I said slowly.
Tom raised his eyebrow and gave me a quizzical look. I shook my head: You don’t want to know.
Norman O’Neal’s voice rose hopefully. “Do you think I have a chance? Of getting back into Ceci’s life?”
I licked my lips and tried to think of what to say. “Let’s put it this way, Norman,” I said, finally. “I’d say you’re going about it in the wrong way. You could start by apologizing to Cecelia and Dodie, and sending them a big check.”
“Please, Goldy, help me.” Norman O’Neal took an unsteady breath. “Have you ever had a close brush with death, Mrs. Schulz? You’re married, aren’t you? Should I call you Mrs. Schulz?”
“Mrs. Schulz is fine. And yes, I’ve had a close brush with death.”
“Doesn’t it make you reorder your priorities?”
“Mr. O’Neal. Norman. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Look, I have a granddaughter I’ve never seen. I know she’s just adopted, I mean, not Cecelia’s by blood, oh, that didn’t come out right. But still, I want to be part of Cecelia’s life, sort of start over, you know? I want to get to know this granddaughter, even if she is just adopted, you know.”
“Just adopted?” I thought of Julian, who was “just adopted,” and had turned out just fine, thank you very so much. “You might want to r
ethink your diction when it comes to referring to your granddaughter, Norm. And where does the brush with death part come in?”
“I heard my granddaughter almost died! So I wanted to reorder my priorities. Please, won’t you help me? Wait, wait a second—”
“Almost died? What do you mean?”
There was no reply, just some gargling from the other end.
“Norm,” I said, “really, I’d love to help you—,” but was interrupted by the sound of Norman O’Neal once again puking his guts out, this time on the hospital floor.
8
I hung up rather than listen to those horrible noises. I then told Tom about the remorseful, confused, and oh-so-sick Norman O’Neal.
“Sounds like your typical alcoholic after a blackout,” Tom said. “He wants like hell to make amends, at least he likes the idea of making amends. Only thing is, he wants somebody else to make them for him.”
“Maybe I should go see him in the hospital,” I replied. “He did sound pretty awful. Plus, he said Cecelia’s daughter almost died! Have you heard anything about that?”
“No, I haven’t. And you’re kidding about visiting Norman O’Neal in the hospital, right? As if you don’t have enough on your plate already.”
“Never tell a caterer she has too much on her plate.”
“Miss G., please. You want to go see Norman O’Neal, I’ll go with you. But at least wait until you’ve done Billie Attenborough’s wedding,” Tom advised. “By then the dust and/or mush may have settled in Norman O’Neal’s brain, and the three of us might be able to have a civilized conversation. Although I doubt it.”
“By then he’ll have gone home from the hospital.”
“I’m sure Dodie O’Neal will tell you where he lives.”
“Or maybe he’ll be in rehab,” I said. “Then I’d never be able to reach him, or at least, not for thirty days, or whatever it is. Now I’m all worried about Cecelia’s daughter. I’m going to call her.”
“It’s almost eleven.”
But I dialed Dodie O’Neal anyway.
Fatally Flaky Page 7
