When I reentered the kitchen, showered and dressed in a clean caterer’s outfit, the scent of warm rolls filled the air. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. It was just past noon; Julian was probably already at the tent, and Liz would be meeting us there at half-past one. There was a lot going on. Too much. In spite of the shower and Tom’s help, I swayed on my feet.
“Sit down, wife,” Tom ordered. “You haven’t seen half of the stuff I got on my grocery-buying binge.” He bustled me into a chair, then turned his attention back to his work. A copious white apron hugged his waist. He rinsed the brine from the chops, dried them, and set them aside. With studied purposefulness, he then washed his hands and proceeded to peel and halve an avocado. He filled both halves with chunks of cooked lobster. After drenching the whole thing with his homemade rémoulade sauce, he put two warm rolls next to his concoction, placed a fork, knife, and napkin on the table, and commanded me to eat.
He didn’t have to tell me twice. Luxuriant lobster and creamy avocado robed in Tom’s signature dressing made a perfect complement for the hot brioche rolls. For a few moments, I was able to forget that I had an event to cater that afternoon. Not only that, but it was the type of affair dreaded by all caterers—the outdoor picnic buffet. Why not just name the occasion Calling All Ants?
Tom stared into the refrigerator and read what I’d scribbled on the storage containers. “Pasta salad and these pies, plus greens for two salads?”
“Mmf,” I said, my mouth full of avocado.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Tom removed pans, bowls, and bags of ingredients, then set them on the counter and winked at me. “You don’t mind if I pack the van, do you, Lobster Girl?”
“Mm—mmf.”
He took that as a yes, too. Within half an hour, he had loaded everything, I had rinsed my plate, and we were almost ready to rock. While I printed out the sheets detailing the picnic prep schedule, Tom called Boyd, who was back at the department. On a whim, I ran up and grabbed Holly Kerr’s old photo album, the one containing pictures of Arch as a baby. When I returned, Tom said Boyd didn’t know any more about Cecelia yet. But the Denver firearms examiner’s report on my gun and the test for the bullets taken from John Richard was expected in a couple of hours. My heart plunged.
Tom thanked him and said that if the department needed him, he’d be with me. He’d drive his own sedan instead of accompanying me in the van, in case there was an emergency and he had to leave in a hurry.
“Which is unlikely,” Tom commented when he’d hung up and we were heading to our vehicles. “The only departmental emergencies generated lately have you at the center of them. So I figure if I stick with my wife, I’ll have a jump on everybody.”
I shoved the photo album into the van and gave him a sour look. “Thanks a lot. You know how much I love being at the center of departmental emergencies.” But he grinned widely, and again the jovial wisecracker I’d married seemed to be peeking out from the funk of the previous month.
Outside, the sunshine had completely dried all remnants of the hail. Spring—or the vestige of that season we see in the Rockies—had finally sprung. Our Alpine rosebushes’ tight buds had opened into a cloud of creamy blossoms. Blue-button flax wavered on tall, sea-green stalks, and a profusion of chartreuse aspen leaves shone beside the jade green of new spruce growth. When a sudden breeze swished through the roses, a spill of petals floated downward, freckling the ground.
The ground, I thought miserably as Tom’s sedan crunched through the gravel ravines made by the hail. The ground into which Cecelia Brisbane would soon be interred. And John Richard, too. I took a deep breath and made my way toward the van.
Driving up Main Street, I gripped the steering wheel so hard my hands became damp. With Tom, back at our house, I’d felt calm. Now my nerves were unraveling. I tried to distract myself by checking out the chattering tourists clogging the sidewalks. They ate taffy and popcorn, showed off their new Navajo turquoise jewelry, and asked for directions to the saloon, the sweatshirt store, and the art gallery. They were all oblivious to this morning’s gruesome discovery. I stared ahead at Tom’s sedan as we crested the road circling the lake.
A soft wind ruffled the water. On the far bank, six sheriff’s-department cars were parked, lights flashing. Uniformed officers waved away the crowd of spectators as others combed the area where the tow truck had been.
My cell phone’s brat-brat brought me back to life.
“Goldy?”
I did not immediately recognize the female voice, and hesitated a moment.
“Goldy? It’s Holly Kerr.”
I was so out of it that it took me a minute to realize that Holly, my catering client from Tuesday’s lunch, was the same kind, wealthy woman I’d just visited yesterday and seen at that morning’s committee breakfast. I said, “Yes?”
“I don’t mean to bother you,” she apologized, “but I have something to show you. Photographs from Albert’s memorial luncheon. You said you were interested in seeing them.”
“Of course, yes, please.” I pulled the van into the Roundhouse parking lot. At the tent, Liz and Julian were directing volunteers setting up chairs. I couldn’t see where Tom had gone.
“One of the guests took a whole roll,” Holly went on, “then had the pictures developed overnight. I can bring them to the picnic, if you want.”
“Oh please, yes. If you could come twenty minutes or so before the picnic begins…” I didn’t finish my sentence. Where had Tom gotten to?
Holly murmured something about wanting to help and signed off. So now I was going to get some photos from Tuesday’s lunch, and they might answer some questions, such as, who had sabotaged my food and attacked me that morning. Or if Bobby Calhoun, dressed as Elvis or as himself, had been present.
I finally saw Tom striding, head down, to the edge of the Roundhouse property. He put his hands in his pockets and gazed at the cops combing the scene where Cecelia’s car had been recovered. I suddenly realized I had more to worry about than some pictures.
Tom’s case that had been thrown out of court had been a drowning. Someone had intentionally, brutally held a young woman under water until she stopped struggling. Was Tom staring at the investigation on the far side of the lake and getting that distant look in his eyes—a look I’d seen far too much of lately—because he was reliving that final, astonishing day in court, when a witness had changed his testimony?
I wanted so much to take care of Tom, to reciprocate the affection and support that he’d lavished on Arch and me from the moment his big body and bigger spirit had swaggered into our lives. But would I really be able to help him? So far, I had no clue.
I threw the van’s gear into Park and fought a wave of nausea. I did have a slew of my own problems. I didn’t know how much time I had to try to figure out who had attacked me or killed John Richard. If the firearms examiner’s report was due that afternoon, then the sheriff’s department was bound to have obtained the results of the gunshot-residue test. Something congealed in my abdomen as I wondered how much trouble I was going to get into for not reporting the theft of my gun. And what if the bullets the coroner took from John Richard had come from my thirty-eight? I rubbed my eyes.
Too many questions, and no good answers. If all of the firearms tests pointed to my firing my own weapon into John Richard, then charges would probably be filed against me that afternoon. Suddenly the future looked darker and murkier than Aspen Meadow Lake.
Tom rapped on my window and I jumped. I hadn’t even seen him come over.
“You all right?” he called through the glass.
“Fine,” I replied. Then I stared into his eyes, searching. How about you? I wanted to ask him. Are you all right?
I rubbed my cheeks to try to get my circulation going. Then I jumped from the van and resolutely put my mind into catering gear. Work, action, moving forward: All these were the antidote for stress, depression, and a host of other ills, right? Tom and I both needed to get cracking.
<
br /> The Southwest Hospital Women’s Auxiliary and friends of Nurse Nan Watkins swarmed across the rutted parking lot and toward the bright white tent. They bore table linens, flower arrangements, baskets, bags, and boxes, all bulging with the flatware, china, glasses, and other odds and ends they’d insisted on providing. Two separate groups of volunteers were slowly hauling a pair of bulletin boards toward the speaker’s podium.
I tried not to think that this might be my retirement party, too.
Soon I was loading Tom’s outstretched arms with containers of pork chops. I balanced the containers of salad and followed him toward the Roundhouse kitchen. My eyes involuntarily wandered back to the sheriff’s-department cars. Would they be done before the picnic started? I certainly hoped so.
Tom stopped short, and I almost crashed into him.
“Tom.” I rebalanced my load and moved to his side. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He lifted his chin. “Over there.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s a possible crime scene. That’s why they’re taking their time.” Of course, as much as I wanted to know what was going on over there, I wanted to know even more what was going on over here, with him. Oblivious, Tom mused: “Problem is, between fishermen and the joggers, any evidence of what happened is probably either contaminated or gone.”
I shifted my grip on the pans. “Tom—”
His voice was deadpan, faraway. “Once they get the car down to the department, they’ll extract the corpse before sending it to the M.E. The rest will go to the crime lab.”
“Please—”
Tom shrugged, hoisted up his load, and resumed shuffling toward the kitchen. Without looking back, Tom said, “That’s their job.”
“Stop for a sec,” I said, my voice low.
He turned and gave me a look of annoyance. “Didn’t you tell me we had all kinds of work to do?”
Hearing our voices, Julian and Liz tumbled out of the kitchen. Julian, clad in a chic gray catering suit, wore a gray apron around his slim waist. A red neckerchief gave him the look of a real chef. Liz’s spill of silver jewelry sparkled in the sunlight as she hurried toward me, a look of motherly concern on her slender face. The cops had come over to tell them they were closing down the lake’s paddle-and sailboat rental, and cordoning off the lake path. Any curious picnickers from our event were to stay put. The cops had refused to tell Julian and Liz exactly what they were doing with their truck and personnel. Undaunted, Liz had called a friend of hers who lived by the lake and heard the whole story.
“Oh my God, Goldy,” she began, “that poor woman. First her husband kills himself, and now this.” She awkwardly tried to hug me around the pans I was carrying. The sharp smell of her cologne made me dizzy. Maybe I wasn’t doing as well as I thought I was.
“It’s gruesome,” I agreed, and gently pulled away from her.
“Let Liz and me do the picnic,” Julian offered. He scanned my face. “Go home, boss. You look exhausted. When Boyd gave me the keys, he told me the breakfast this morning was like a comedy made in hell. Tom,” he began, looking for support. But one glance at the vacant look in Tom’s eyes made him realize that my husband wasn’t bucking up as I’d hoped.
“We’re fine,” I told them. “Stop fretting, will you? Now help us get this food going, okay?”
And so our team forged ahead. Julian and Liz tucked chilled foods into the walk-in and searched the cabinets for serving dishes. Tom preheated the ovens and clattered pans onto the stovetop. I pulled out my printed sheets and scanned the prep schedule. The first order of business was checking on the setup inside the tent.
There, all was activity. Volunteers worked feverishly, festooning the bulletin boards that they’d finally managed to set up beside the podium. Foil letters screaming “Happy Retirement!” and “We’ll Miss You!” fluttered in the breeze. When I arrived beside the crookedly placed buffet tables, the auxiliary was pinning up photos and cards to commemorate Nan’s twenty-five years at Southwest Hospital.
I requisitioned a volunteer to help me straighten the tables, and was unfurling a tablecloth when Holly Kerr arrived—early, as promised. After the horrid PosteriTREE meeting, she must have gone home, showered—to wash off the residue of the women’s hostility—and changed her clothes. Now she was wearing a beige linen pantsuit accented with pearls, probably an outfit she’d worn often when Albert was a pastor and she was the dutiful pastor’s wife. Oh well, you can take the girl out of the church, but you can’t take the church out of the girl. Holly seemed as disappointed by all the women wearing jeans as she was sorry that I was too busy to visit with her just then. But the countdown to when we’d promised food service was fast approaching. I enthusiastically thanked her, slipped the envelope of photos from Tuesday’s lunch into my apron pocket, and promised to chat with her about them later.
When I’d finished overseeing the setup in the tent, Marla’s big Mercedes roared into the Roundhouse lot. I checked my watch, then slipped back inside and helped Liz unpack the strawberry pies. Within moments, Marla, who had changed into a spangled pantsuit, burst into the kitchen.
“Ooh, pie!” she cried. “Let’s do that eat-dessert-first thing. Where are the plates and forks?” She began clattering through the cupboards until she found a plate and a fork. “Where’s that damn pie server?” She looked at me expectantly, then lowered her voice. “I want to have a piece of pie while I tell you about the rumor I heard that Talitha Vikarios had an affair with Albert Kerr. I wish I had some idea of who this girl is—”
I said, “Some idea of…wait a minute.” While Liz sliced a piece of pie for Marla, I ran out to my van and nabbed Holly’s old album. When I returned, Marla was in the Roundhouse’s empty dining room merrily digging into her jumbo slice of pie. I sat down beside her and opened the album.
“Remember this young woman?” I demanded, pointing to the photo of Talitha Vikarios in her candy-striper uniform.
She put down her plate and fork and stared at the picture. “Oh, right. Her. Sweet girl, Talitha. I did hear she slept with Albert Kerr. Apparently Holly was desperate to break up the affair, and that’s why they left for England. I mean, we have seminaries here in the United States, don’t we? Why go to England?”
“Albert Kerr, huh?” I examined the picture again: the buoyant young candy striper, baby Arch, John Richard, tall, Abraham Lincolnesque Ted Vikarios, and bald, grinning Albert Kerr. “I can’t believe it.”
Marla finished her pie and put down her fork. “I told you it was a rumor.”
“From your vast knowledge of John Richard’s sexual conquests, do you know if Talitha might have been one of them?” I asked.
Marla said, “She’s not in the data bank.”
I snorted. “You and your data bank. Okay, now check these out with me.” I put away Holly’s album, pulled out the new batch she’d just given me, and laid them out on the adjoining table. “These are from Tuesday’s funeral lunch. Anything jump out at you? My theory is that somewhere in here is the person who attacked me and killed our ex.”
“So you don’t like my Courtney MacEwan–Roger Mannis theory?”
“I like it. Just look at the pictures, will you?”
Marla sighed. But she was full of pie, so she didn’t complain.
We pored over the glossy shots of Tuesday’s event. There were Ted and Ginger Vikarios, Ted looking tipsy, Ginger forcing a smile. Holly Kerr appeared serene beside her church friends. Courtney, her figure shown off to advantage by her hands on her hips, stared in the direction of John Richard and Sandee. Her facial expression could have had the caption “Woman Chewing a Lemon.” Lana Della Robbia and her sidekick Dannyboy laughed at somebody’s joke.
“Hold on,” I said, grabbing the photo with the laughing Lana and Dannyboy. Behind them, a man huddled beside the window.
“Who’s he?” Marla asked.
“I think it’s our Elvis impersonator! Bobby Calhoun, Sandee’s boyfriend.” Marla stared at the picture with me. “So,” I went on, “he was
there. I can’t believe it! Maybe he’s the one who trashed my food and chucked me into the ground.”
“But why would he do that?”
I looked at her. “All right, think. If you’re dying of jealousy, and you’re going to kill the new boyfriend of your girlfriend, how do you set it up? Maybe you want to make it look as if it’s the ex-wife of your girlfriend’s new boyfriend.”
“Hold on, I’m having a sugar rush.” Marla closed her eyes, then opened them. “So you’re saying Bobby trashed your place and chopped you in the neck so you’d have a motive to be pissed off with the Jerk?”
“Exactly.”
“And why did he come to the lunch?”
I said, “My guess is that he followed Sandee everywhere. You remember how nervous she was at the strip club. And also, if Bobby’s at the lunch, then he looks for an opportunity to go through my van, so he can steal something to drop at the scene. Imagine his delight when he found my gun.”
“Uh-huh. And the reason he stole your kitchen shears?”
I tilted my head and blew air in the direction of the log ceiling. “Maybe he always wanted to be a barber.”
“When all else fails, there’s always wild speculation!” Marla said brightly. “Think we’ll have this figured out by the time the picnic begins?”
“All right, I guess I should go work,” I said, picking up the photos and the album. Marla snagged her dish and wiggled her hips as she sashayed out of the dining room ahead of me. The white spangles on her pantsuit glittered in the sunlight. Then she stopped abruptly and glanced back. “Goldy? Are you sure you’re all right? You look bad.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, and followed her into the kitchen.
Marla left to see if she could find some old friends. I resolved to put the Jerk, Cecelia, and everything else associated with this frightful week out of my head. For the next half hour, Liz and I worked side by side, drizzling balsamic vinaigrette over the chops. The brining gave the pork its butterlike texture; the vinaigrette gave each bite a zingy taste of herbs. When we finished with the meat, I moved on to arranging the salad in lettuce-lined bowls while Liz whisked the dressing. After putting the last touches on the salad bowls, I washed my hands one last time. The thought of the medical examiner washing her hands before doing the autopsy on Cecelia Brisbane made me suddenly dizzy. What if Cecelia had been killed by John Richard’s murderer, because of what she knew about the Jerk? I told myself to stop thinking like this, and picked up a carton of wine bottles. Then I turned to go back to the kitchen and ran right into Liz and her gallon of salad dressing. The resulting spew of oil, vinegar, herbs, and cuss words would have gotten me forever expelled from the Sunday School Teachers Association. Luckily, the vinaigrette missed my uniform. This was a good thing because I didn’t have any more clean ones.
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