Fatally Flaky

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “But he has no plants and no pets,” Lucas interjected. “As you very well know, Goldy.”

  “Lucas,” I began again, “could you please just stop? Why are you here, anyway?”

  He reddened. “Well, I do have keys to the house.”

  I asked, “So what were you doing here, then?”

  “Hold on, kids,” said Katz. He and Allen exchanged an unreadable look. Before Lucas and I could keep arguing, there was a sharp knock on the door. Lucas and I both jumped. Allen held up both hands, indicating everyone should stay where they were. Then he walked over quickly and opened the door. When Tom strode into the room, my shoulders relaxed in relief, while Lucas groaned even louder.

  “Schulz,” said Katz. “Thank God.” He was clearly relieved not to have to sort out what was going on between Schulz’s wife and the dead man’s son.

  But alas. Tom did not seem relieved. I recognized the attitude he assumed, but was usually successful at concealing, when he was mightily ticked off. He gave me a bitter look, and I could just imagine the questions he’d pepper me with as soon as we got back to our house: So, how’d you do with Marla at St. Luke’s? Get those diocesan letters straightened out, did you? Oh, wait, you didn’t do that.

  The cops briefed Tom as to Lucas’s phone call to 911: he’d heard an intruder in the living room, who had been me, and he needed law enforcement to come as quickly as possible. Then he proceeded to sideswipe me with a lampshade.

  “I want this house sealed,” Tom said to Katz and Allen. “Nobody else comes in except our guys, understand? We’re looking into a suspicious death, and this residence is off limits to anyone not involved in the investigation.”

  “Oh no, you are not going to seal this house,” Lucas protested. “My father had a history of heart attack and he had another, fatal one early this morning. It is simply not fair for you to—”

  Tom’s stance—not menacing, but not even close to conciliatory—his penetrating green eyes, his lifted chin, all these he trained on Lucas Carmichael, who closed his yappy mouth. Thank God.

  “Okay, everybody out,” Katz ordered, and I was only too glad to meekly follow Tom out of Jack’s house.

  “GOLDY,” SAID TOM, once we were in our kitchen and I had downed some aspirin for my sorely aching head. “What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t really thinking.”

  “That much is obvious. Down at the department, they’re going to have a field day with this. ‘Schulz’s wife broke into the house of a guy whose death was suspicious. What d’you suppose she was looking for?’”

  “Katz and Allen will say all that? Why?”

  “Because they’re cops, Goldy, and they’ve got to talk about something when they come off their shift. And the more trouble you get into, the more news you make, Miss G.”

  “I wasn’t getting into trouble! I just wanted to find out why Jack left me his keys!”

  “And did you?” Tom moved over to the espresso machine.

  “No.”

  There was a pause while we looked at each other. Then Tom exhaled, smiled, and shook his head. “You want some coffee?”

  “I’ve been thinking I should switch to decaf.”

  Tom laughed. “You?”

  “All right, all right, the good stuff.” While Tom rattled around retrieving cups, I said, “There was a new set of golf clubs in his living room.” I didn’t elaborate, as I didn’t want to mention the clock. Stealing merchandise from a potential crime scene? Not something I wanted to share with Tom. My head hung, and I felt an acute sense of misery. I could barely form the words, but I had to know. “So did Jack die, you know, naturally? Of a heart attack, I mean. Or was the death suspicious?”

  “Miss G.” Tom pulled shots of espresso for each of us, brought them over to the table, and sat down. “Why are you doing this to yourself? You know that since Jack was attacked, and died shortly thereafter, his death is suspicious by definition. I’ve already called down to Southwest Hospital to have the body sent up to our pathologist. We have to determine cause and manner.” He reached out for my free hand. “You know this.”

  Yeah, okay, I knew it, but the knowledge just increased my misery. The mental image of Jack being cut open, his parts being dissected and weighed, made me ill.

  “Drink your coffee,” said Tom, as he placed an espresso in front of me.

  Just to placate him, I took a tiny sip. It was hot and scalded my tongue. “Have you found out anything else?”

  Tom said, “We’re still working on getting the analysis back on the vial from Finn’s trash. These things take time. But we found out a bit more about the break-in at his house.”

  “What?”

  “A neighbor came forward and said she saw someone over there on Friday afternoon. Don’t know why she didn’t call us sooner, but people get scared.”

  “Any description?”

  “Nope, just a man, she thought. Maybe older.”

  “Was it Jack?”

  “We don’t know who it was. If the woman had come forward sooner, we’d know more. We still don’t know what he took, if anything. The neighbor says the person wasn’t carrying anything when he—or she—came out of Finn’s house. So that’s why the analysis on the vial is so important.” Tom stood up. “I have to go back. Will you promise me, pretty please, with a cherry on top, that you’ll stay home until I get back? I can call Marla to come over and be with you.”

  “I’ll call her. Just hand me the phone.”

  “Goldy,” said Tom seriously, “do not go back into Jack’s house, understand? It has been sealed.”

  “I won’t.” Almost as an afterthought, I said, “Before Billie’s wedding last night, Jack said he wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  I shrugged. “You think he was going to tell me why he wanted to talk to you? You know how he was.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Then he wanted to talk to Boyd. Do you know if he found him?”

  Tom shook his head. “I asked Boyd if he’d seen Jack, or talked to him, and he said he had not. Sorry, Miss G.”

  Tom kissed me and left.

  I drained my coffee, called Marla, got her voice mail, and invited her over. I had no idea when or even if she would show up. Then, very carefully, I pulled out the non-functioning travel clock.

  I was still convinced, or I wanted to be convinced, that Jack had left this for me, as a puzzle. And if he had, then by God, I was determined to figure out what it contained.

  There were initials, very faintly visible, I noticed belatedly, embossed in gold on the leather case: HWF. I blinked, and then it came to me. This old travel clock had belonged to Harold William Finn. Had Jack taken this out of Finn’s house? But why? And had the brand-new golf clubs been Finn’s, too? Why would Jack have those?

  One thing at a time, I told myself. I turned the neatly folding travel clock over in my hand. I had to know why Jack had had it. Jack was not sentimental, and it seemed extremely unlikely to me that Finn would have given Jack a small travel clock to remember him by.

  I opened the case once more and folded it into its triangular shape. Nothing.

  Hans Bogen, the master jeweler at Aspen Meadow Jewelers, had fashioned the rings for Billie and Craig Miller. He had vociferously complained to me about Billie’s constant changes of mind concerning the setting of her engagement ring, the size of the diamond(s), and the color of the metal: White gold or yellow? Or should we have platinum? Could Hans order the Versace china Billie had picked out, and give them a discount? Why not? And would he take back the “hideous” desk clock somebody had given them as a wedding present, even though the clock had not been bought from him? Like me, Hans had learned that when dealing with Billie, one had to become adept at caller ID.

  But after the third change of mind about the setting for Billie’s engagement ring, Hans had had enough. He’d told Marla that he’d informed Billie to take her business down to Tiffany’s in Cherry Creek. “Enough is enough,” said M
arla, imitating Hans’s Swiss accent.

  Luckily for me, Hans Bogen and I had become partners-in-pain. He liked me, and had even ordered his wife’s birthday cake from me, which I’d given to him gratis. He’d promised I could call on him if I had any jewelry problems, of any kind. Call him whenever I wanted to, he said.

  He lived nearby, and after I’d dropped off his wife’s cake, he’d repeated that Tom and I should drop in anytime.

  Which was exactly what I intended to do, as Hans Bogen’s specialty was clocks.

  19

  This time, I had the sense to put on a cardigan before venturing out. While we’d been having all that rain earlier in the month, I’d actually relished going outside, as the wet pines and aspens had filled the air with a delicious scent. But I was still having trouble catching my breath, and my head continued to throb, so it was hard to smell anything. Jack’s death had left me without the ability to use any of my senses, apparently. But I was determined to use my head, or at least that part of it that hadn’t been smacked by Lucas Carmichael.

  Anyway, using my head—that was what would get me through this mess. I couldn’t even call it grief. If I did, that would mean Jack was really gone.

  At the end of our street, I stared at the signs and tried to remember where the Bogens’ house was. Finally I turned right, figuring I would recognize the Bogens’ red-painted, white-trimmed Alpine-style A-frame, even if I couldn’t remember the address.

  And I did. When Hanna Bogen, brown haired, of medium height, and in her midforties, opened the door, she blinked. She wore a denim skirt and a T-shirt that read, will teach for food.

  “Goldy,” Hanna said, without a trace of the Swiss accent that lay so heavily over Hans’s speech, “you don’t look so hot. Come in.”

  Within moments we were in Hanna’s snug kitchen, which was so clean and scrubbed I wondered if I could hire her to help do cleanup for Goldilocks’ Catering. But I knew she would never jump ship to catering, as she was dedicated to—of all things—teaching English literature at Elk Park Prep. She set down two steaming mugs of cinnamon tea, a plate of ginger cookies, sliced peaches, and a wedge of Swiss cheese.

  “I’m not hungry,” I protested. Mentally, I added, And the day I drink herb tea is the day they have to put it in my IV, when I’m in a coma. “But thank you.”

  “Pfft. When was the last time you had anything to eat? You look as if you’re going to pass out.”

  “All right, thanks,” I said, and downed a slice of peach. I’m sure it was wonderful, and under ordinary circumstances, I would have enjoyed the sweetness. “Is Hans around? I need to talk to him about a clock. It’s really, really important, and after I, uh, made your birthday cake, he said I should come over anytime if I had—”

  Hanna held up her index finger. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that Hans will never be here when clients drop in with their timepieces.”

  Omigod, please spare me the Jane Austen quotations at this moment. “Do you know where he is? Or, uh, when he’ll be back? This is really, really important.”

  “Hans takes Monday off. Today, he went fishing. He usually doesn’t get back in until the evening. And anyway, he would need all the tools he has at the shop.” When she saw my downcast face, her brown eyes filled with sympathy. She said, “Look, I can loan you a clock, Goldy.”

  “It’s not like that,” I found myself protesting. “Could I leave Hans a note?”

  Hanna produced pen and paper, and I wrote Hans a message that I hoped conveyed enough bafflement and desperation that he’d get cracking on Finn’s travel clock, but not call the police. My godfather, I said, had left me the clock as sort of a puzzle. I don’t know why it doesn’t work, I wrote, but I’d like you to open up all the machinery, if that’s what you call it, and see if there’s anything else in there, something that doesn’t belong. whatever that thing is, that’s what I need. I know you’re busy, but I really need this to be done as soon as possible. Not knowing why my godfather left me this clock is driving me batty. Thank you, Hans. I signed it simply Goldy, with my business and home lines.

  I bade Hanna farewell and took off for home. I hadn’t gone ten paces when my cell phone buzzed.

  “Where the hell are you?” Marla fumed. “I’m outside your house and you’re not answering. Billie’s wedding is over, Goldy. You can come out of hiding.”

  “I’m out taking a walk,” I said. “I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  I actually smiled. “Just get in your Mercedes and wait for me.”

  “I’m going to need a drink when you finally let me in. Father Pete and I couldn’t find the diocesan letters, and everyone was calling the church, wanting to know about arrangements for Jack. I’ve already had a heart attack myself, you know. So this is all just as depressing as hell.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Soon I was outside our house, and I speedily let Marla in. I asked her if she wanted a sherry. She glanced at our kitchen clock—I was thankful we actually had one—and said to make it scotch with a splash of soda.

  “I don’t care that it’s not technically cocktail time,” Marla said. “I need the good stuff, calories be damned. Speaking of which, do you have any food left over from the wedding? I know we had eggs this morning, but I’m hungry again. And I didn’t get very much of that fabulous-looking food during the reception, I’m sorry to say.” She grinned widely. “But I’m hungry for it now.”

  “Julian packed up, sorry. I have some Brie and crackers. Will that do?”

  Marla lifted an eyebrow. “Works for me. God, that spa was awful, with Victor hovering around, as if he was spying on you, on the wedding, on something. Victor gives me the creeps. He employs Lucas Carmichael there, did you know? The vaunted PA does intake evaluations.”

  “Lucas?” My mind immediately leaped to the possibility that Lucas and Victor, neither of whom was on my Favorite Persons list, were in cahoots. But in cahoots about what, exactly?

  Marla was squinting at me. “Goldy, what in the world are you thinking? You look awful. Look, I know I said I’m sorry about Jack, but maybe I shouldn’t—” Marla paused, then reached over and squeezed my hand. “Maybe I should go home. I’m sorry I brought up all this stuff.”

  “It’s okay, you can talk about the spa or Victor.” My throat closed momentarily. “You can talk about Jack.” I felt Marla’s friendship embrace me. Oddly, this meant that tears were able to run freely down my face.

  Marla disappeared, then reappeared with a box of tissues. “C’mon, let it out.”

  So I did. But something Marla had said stuck in my head, and when I stopped crying I stared at her steadily.

  “Dammit, what’s wrong now?” She sipped her drink, set the glass on the table, and glared back at me. “You want some other brand of tissues?”

  “No, I want you to go out to Gold Gulch Spa.”

  “Why?” She waited for me to say something, but my throat had closed again. “You want me to help you get Jack’s car? I mean, it’s still out there, isn’t it?”

  “No. I want you to go out there as a client. For a week.”

  She stuck a piece of Brie in her mouth. “Forget it,” she mumbled around the cheese.

  “It’s not for me. It’s for Jack.”

  Marla closed her mouth and chewed. Then she shut her eyes and rubbed them, as if she were trying to think of just the right words. Finally, she said, “Jack passed away last night, Goldy. He doesn’t care whether I lose weight or not.”

  “Don’t joke, okay? Just listen.” I explained to her how Jack had written “Gold” on a piece of paper, and how Lucas had misunderstood Jack as wanting to summon me to his bedside. But, I said, it was my opinion that Jack had been referring to Gold Gulch Spa. I’d even seen him rummaging around in the Smoothie Cabin when I’d been out there. And, I added, I thought Victor Lane was having money problems. He’d asked Charlotte Attenborough to invest in Gold Gulch. So maybe Jack was looking for evidence o
f money problems, and Victor caught him … and attacked him.

  “Goldy,” Marla said after a few more minutes’ thought, “I think you need a drink, too.” When I sighed, she insisted, “Who knows what Jack meant? He’d just been attacked, he was probably on some megadose of painkiller, he could have meant anything. And anyway, Victor’s been looking for a financial angel to help with that spa since he first took it over. He even asked me to invest in the place. I went out there once, as a day client? I told him he needed to serve better food if he wanted any of my bucks. Nothing against Yolanda, I think she’s a great cook. But when I complained to her, she said Victor keeps a stranglehold on the regimen out there.” Marla took a long pull on her drink. “Really, I think you should just—” She paused again. “Just—”

  “Grieve?” I supplied. “I already tried that. I want to know what was going on with Jack, and why Doc Finn, his best friend, was killed.” I reminded myself not to give away anything Tom had told me about Finn’s peculiar murder. “Something is going on out at that spa,” I insisted to Marla, “and I think Jack wanted me to find out what it was.”

  “But he didn’t say anything to you about it, did he? He didn’t leave you a note telling you something untoward was happening at Gold Gulch, did he? And he certainly didn’t indicate what he wanted you, or better yet, Tom, to do about it. Did he?”

  “No. Not really. But there’s more.” I told her about the crowd in the hospital: Lucas, Billie, Charlotte, and Craig. I told her about Jack’s impatience to have them all gone, and how he’d written “Keys,” and “Fin” on the paper, too. As if in proof, I drew the crumpled paper from my sweatpants pocket and laid it on the kitchen table.

  Marla peered down at it. I suddenly saw Jack’s shaky lettering through somebody else’s eyes, and an arrow of doubt found its way to my heart.