Obstacle Course

by Yvonne Montgomery

  "Damn it, Cuffy, you promised you'd let me know when you—"

  "I never promised you anything." Cuffy shot him a quick look of defiance. "You assumed something that wasn't true, just as you always do."

  "Wait just a damned minute," Kit began hotly.

  "For God's sake, lower your voice." Cuffy slanted a look at Finny. "I'm sorry. Kit and I have some unfinished business. Would you excuse us?"

  "Certainly." Finny turned to go and slammed into the ruffled front of Twee Garrett. Her champagne sloshed over one side of her glass.

  "Here you are." Twee grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward the sea of souls whence she'd sprung. Finny glanced behind her in time to see Kit Landauer take hold of Cuffy's wrist.

  "I've had former Commissioner Nielsson trapped for ten minutes, talking about the trophy cases he wants built in his den. He shoots skeet, you know." One hand pushed firmly at the small of Finny's back, the other waving gaily at a bald, unsmiling man forging his way away from the refreshment table. "My lawyer; a lovely man." She prodded Finny again. "Get going; the commissioner won't keep for long. He's shockingly forgetful."

  "Twee." Finny craned her neck round. Twee looked grim with determination, pale with a fine misting of perspiration on her forehead, her lips tight with resolve. "I think it's about time I went home."

  "Don't be silly, darling. You haven't met everyone yet. Don't forget, the whole party's for you."

  "Yeah, but if I don't get some rest, I won't be able to follow up on all these opportunities." Finny stopped and turned. "I'm serious, Twee. I have to get up at six."

  Concern swamped Twee's soft features. "Oh, my dear, I had no idea. You should have told me. I could have set—"

  The crash of glassware and metal once again split through the wall-to-wall noise.

  "Oh, heavens," moaned Twee, "if that's the new girl again—"

  A blood-curdling scream drowned out her words.

  Chapter 4

  "Good morning, Denver, Big Chuck Harroldson here on this gorgeous Colorado day! Welcome to KGBY's 'Speak Out,' where the listener rules the airwaves. What's on your mind this bright Monday morning, Denver? Give me a call at 999-TALK. And we have Genevieve on line one. Good morning, Genevieve, you're on the air."

  "Hello, Chuck? I think you're just great, and I want you to know that everybody in my neighborhood never misses your show."

  "Well, thanks, Genevieve, and what's on your mind this morning?"

  "Chuck, I think that judge that got killed last night, you know, the one that's in this morning's paper? Well, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but I think he got what's coming to him, you know? He let several bad people go free or just as near as, and I think that it was like a judgment of God that he himself was struck down—"

  The pillow that covered Finny's head moved convulsively as she flailed at the clock radio with one hand. She connected with the alarm switch and the querulous voice died.

  "Oh, God." Finny's eyes opened far enough to see the golden edging around the window blinds. She hadn't switched off the alarm. Which made it six in the a.m. Which meant she'd had three hours' sleep. And Corinne Danovich was waiting for her new linen cupboard.

  By the time Finny was out of the shower, Barelli had made it home. He was sitting on the bed, his face reflecting all of his forty-four years: bleary-eyed, mouth tight with fatigue, dark hair falling every which way. His crumpled suit jacket covered shoulders slumped in weariness.

  Finny crossed the room and stood in front of him. Their eyes met for a blank moment, and then her hand was stroking the back of his neck, his head bent against her. "You look like hell."

  "Can't look as bad as I feel." His voice was rough. "Last night was like paint remover—industrial strength—on the old, thin veneer of civilization. I've been in riots that were more fun."

  He was shrugging out of his coat and she helped him pull it over his shoulders and down his arms. "After you left, we still had half a dozen party guests to talk to. Their lawyers loved that. They swarmed in like wasps as soon as the word got out. Not to mention the guests who were lawyers themselves. Then there was the press." He rubbed both hands over his face. "Put a bunch of lawyers up against reporters and you can sell even a pacifist on the neutron bomb."

  Finny was unbuttoning his shirt. "How long before you have to go back?"

  "Not long enough." He yawned and shook his head. "I'm s'posed to be back at noon." He lay back onto the rumpled sheets, his shirt open. "Gotta interview Landauer—he wouldn't say diddly without his mouthpiece—and some old bat who was screeching like a goosed nun, and good ol' Twee's lawyer wants to talk again..." His voice trailed off.

  Finny tugged the light bedspread out from under him and pulled it up over his long legs. She lifted his head gently and pushed a pillow under it.

  "Mmmmm-hmmmm." Barelli nestled into the cool softness.

  Finny pulled on jeans and a t-shirt and dug through a drawer for socks. Barelli murmured and shifted on the bed. She scooped up her running shoes and went downstairs.

  The kitchen was starting to glow with the newly minted sunshine beaming through the room's eastern window. The greenhouse windows on the west side stared out at the yard, still filled with the lingering shadows that would shrink in dreamy increments as the day began.

  Finny set her shoes on a wicker chair and plodded barefoot across cool tiles to the refrigerator. If she could mainline coffee—real, caffeine-laden coffee—she might get her eyelids at half-mast. The coffeemaking ritual was automatic, its movements as set as Kabuki theater. Finny poured the coffee into a cup and set the carafe back onto its hot plate. Her thoughts were drawn like iron filings to the magnet of Twee's party the night before.

  The crash of crockery had been followed by a shrill scream that killed the party babble as abruptly as a time whistle stops factory work, leaving silence in its wake. A broken voice sobbing "He's dead, he's dead," had jolted the crowded room into sound and motion, the shocked guests pushing at each other like cattle herded into pens, each demanding of the others, "What's going on?" Finny caught a quick glimpse of the maid, her dark face contorted in horror, her eyes trained on something at her feet.

  Finny ran up to the edge of the crush. Beyond the gaping people, a young blond woman—the one in the black strapless gown, she realized—was on her knees amidst shattered dishes and scattered silverware. She was crying brokenly. Noting the vague motions of the woman's hand, Finny headed through the doorway to the hall leading to the kitchen, the mud room, and, ultimately the back door of the house. Behind her puffed Twee, making small, dismayed sounds.

  The hallway was empty, and when she got to the kitchen, Finny saw that it was, too.

  "Outside," she heard as she came back to the hall, now crowded with people shuffling toward the open door. She got behind Les Trethalwyn and let him run interference.

  They came out into the night. The clear, starlit sky arched protectively over the scents of summer and the quiet lapping of the swimming pool's breeze-induced tide. The herd of guests moved over the deck, their feet striking drumbeats on the redwood surface, and then suddenly stopping. Over Les's shoulder, Finny could see something lying on the flagstone apron of the pool, its nature hidden in the shadows cast by the murky light behind it.

  She walked down the steps, around the people between her and the pool. "Who is it?" someone appealed. "What's happening?"

  As Finny approached the crumpled figure, bright security lights at the corners of the house switched on. There was a gasp from behind her. Finny glanced over her shoulder and saw Paige Dexter, her face ghostly in the glare, her hands wrapped around one of Ty Engelman's arms as if around a lifeline.

  When she first saw Judge Sarandon lying on the flagstone, she thought for one mad second there'd been a mistake. How stupid they all were going to feel, her mind flashed, when they realized he'd fainted and the stain down his shirt and tie was the burgundy she'd made him spill. And then reality intruded. Even if grade-A wishful thinking could se
e burgundy instead of blood, it would take a damn sight more to transform the rosewood skewer handle protruding from Sarandon's chest into a tie tack.

  "Oh, my God," Twee said in a high, little voice.

  Finny ignored her and the jostling bodies behind her, moving forward to kneel beside the judge. The babble level went from low to high as she placed her fingertips on Sarandon's neck. She couldn't find a pulse.

  Barelli shouldered his way through the human wall and squatted beside her. "Let me check," he said, and repeated Finny's actions. "Call the department," he said finally. "Tell them to send an ambulance."

  Finny shot him a surprised glance.

  "For the body," he said softly.

  The noise level rose at his words. William Sarandon had met with a summary judgment and everybody wanted to talk about it.

  Finny stood up and pushed her way through the people between her and the door. She looked for Cuffy, but she wasn't to be seen in the faces that now floated around the judge's body like helium-filled balloons. She heard Barelli's voice rising, ordering people to stand away from the body.

  Then the evening slipped into illusory time and crept onward, its new markers the comings and goings of the police, the coroner's office people; the mixture of outrage and resignation as the party guests were herded and separated, identified and interviewed. Telephones rang and doorbells chimed with the thwarted efforts of reporters to pin down the sequence of events before their papers' deadlines or their morning news shows.

  Finny was in the kitchen, curled up on the Brobdinagian rocking chair that nestled next to the cold, manor-sized fireplace when Twee found her. It was after midnight.

  The hours had been unkind to Twee, breaching the armor of makeup, wilting her silver-and-black ruffles. A washboard of wrinkles creased her brow; her violet hair sagged alarmingly.

  "You've got to talk to your lieutenant," she said forcefully. She loomed over Finny like a creature out of mythology. "He's simply got to let Cuffy and Paige go home."

  Finny focused her eyes and struggled to understand. "What?"

  "Your lieutenant won't let them leave—it isn't fair—they shouldn't have to put up with it."

  "Christ, Twee." Finny rubbed at her eyes with both hands. "He's not out to torture anybody. He's trying to figure out who killed the judge."

  "I know that." Twee's expression was wild, and tears were making distinct inroads at the corners. "But it's too much to expect her to stay here. Their separation was bitter, but that doesn't mean Paige isn't upset. And Cuffy's just gone all quiet, as if she isn't even here."

  The words rattled around inside Finny's head for a few seconds before they shaped themselves into coherence. "Separation? Whose?"

  "William's and Paige's, of course." Twee's mouth trembled. "Just because their marriage didn't survive doesn't make Paige not care about his murder. She's not a robot, you know."

  "Paige Dexter was married to Judge Sarandon?" Finny stared at Twee glassily, half wondering if she was hearing right. "You mean she's Cuffy's—"

  "Mother. Of course, Cuffy's stronger than Paige, much stronger, but she's close to the edge, too. This is such a shock—"

  "You're telling me!" Finny shook her head. "Why does Paige have a different name—Dexter instead of Sarandon?"

  "She never did use William's name in public," Twee said numbly. "She had her own identity before she was married. Paige was always the 'little Dexter princess.' " Anger came into her expression. "What difference does it make? Will you talk to your policeman friend?"

  Finny raised one hand. "Okay. I'll see what I can do." She pushed herself up out of the chair. "Where's Chris now?"

  "The family room." Twee pressed the handkerchief she clutched in one hand against her lips. "Family room. What a stupid name for a room... Just Herbert and I—oh God, I wish he was here." Her voice quavered.

  Finny paused, then put her arms around Twee, felt the trembling rippling through her. "This must be so horrible for you, Twee. I'm sorry it had to happen here."

  Twee pulled out of her hold and pressed the scrap of cloth against one eye, then the other. "Just help get it over with. You can do that, can't you? Your lieutenant will listen, won't he?"

  "I'll see."

  "Just do it, Finny." The choked words had the ring of command. "Do it for me."

  Finny nodded.

  The silence of the living room was stark in contrast to its earlier hubbub. The paintings and sculptures housed in the huge area seemed otherworldly in such emptiness, their messages lost in the absence of witnesses. The click of Finny's heels on the marble floor was slowly drowned in the sound of the voices flowing from the arched doorway off the far end of the room.

  Les Trethalwyn came out the door, nearly colliding with Finny. He reached automatically to steady her. His face was pasty, his eyes shadowed with the horror of the night's events. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes. How about you?"

  "God, this has been a nightmare." He rubbed one hand across his mouth, long fingers trembling. "I could do with a drink, a very large drink, anywhere that isn't here. D'you want to come with me?"

  For a moment Finny wanted to go. "Thanks, but I'd better not."

  "Then I'll be seeing you." He walked past her, his pace increasing with each step.

  Finny paused as she entered Twee's family room. If the more public part of the house had all the ambience of an art gallery, Twee had made up for it in this place. Thick tweed carpet and knotty pine paneling warmed the air. A well-used gray sofa was dotted by soft, multicolored pillows. A hulking captain's desk provided the only interruption in the banks of shelves extending across one wall, all of them laden with books and magazines. A huge television screen was the centerpiece of the wall opposite the shelves, and several bright orange Broncos pennants had been tacked above it. Two recliners held pride of place near the TV, one accompanied by an end table inundated with books and newspapers, the other holding an enormous Teddy bear who stared fixedly at the TV set.

  Barelli was propped against the bar at the far end of the room, a telephone receiver squeezed between his neck and shoulder. He'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. His eyes met Finny's briefly and then moved away as his conversation intensified.

  Eddie Apodaca, Barelli's partner, was in quiet conversation with one of the party's three-piece suits, a pale young man whose moist eyes were framed in heavy tortoiseshell glasses he removed and replaced in punctuation to his nervous tenor voice. Eddie was his usual camouflaged self, in a dark, I'm-just-a-civil-servant suit, white button-down shirt, and measured stripe tie. Under close-cropped black hair, graying in spots, creases were lining up on his forehead and his fleshy nose was pinched in at the corners. Impatience looked out of weary eyes cushioned by dark circles.

  "Excuse me." Finny was pushed aside by a whirlwind in green who strode across the room toward Barelli. Abigail Hunter's thick red hair rose and settled on her shoulders with each determined step. She charged with all the subtlety of a tank across the room's thick carpeting.

  "Lieutenant." Her voice was steely.

  Barelli nodded to her and returned to his telephone conversation.

  "Lieutenant." More loudly.

  Barelli put a hand over the receiver and looked down his straight, sharp nose at her, his eyes narrowed.

  "One of your henchmen told me I wasn't allowed to make a phone call. Is that true?"

  "That's right, Miss Hunter. No calls yet."

  Her pale hands, each finger tipped in red nail polish, rested on her hips. "That's unconstitutional."

  "Bullshit." He shifted in irritation. "Look, you'll get your story out. I just don't want you doing it yet. You'll have to excuse me." He put the receiver back to his ear.

  Abigail's eyes widened in shock. "I'll see that your superiors hear about this, Lieutenant," she stormed. "After all the trouble the chief has gone to improve the PD's public image, he'll have your head for lunch."

  "He doesn't eat Italian." Barelli turned his shoulder to
her.

  "You bastard. I won't forget this." She whirled around and stalked back across the room. Eyes flashing, nostrils flared, she was magnificently angry.

  She spared Finny a glance, cocked her nose a little higher, and strode through the door. Where the hell did she get that kind of energy this time of night, Finny wondered sourly.

  Barelli hung up the phone and ambled across the room in Fury's wake. "How you doin', babe? You look done in."

  "Thanks." She motioned toward the door. "Dear old Abigail seems a little put out."

  "She wants to get a jump on her Pulitzer." Barelli's wide mouth stretched in a smile. " 'I Was There,' and all that."

  "Why do I believe she's not going to mention you in kindly terms?"

  Barelli put one arm around her shoulders and moved her toward the bar. "Who gives a damn? She's been hanging out with the polo players too long. Thinks she's one of 'em." He pulled a bar stool out and pushed her onto it. "I was about to go looking for you. You ready to be grilled?"

  "I'm ready to go to bed." Finny let her head rest on one hand. "Grilled about what?"

  "Anything you saw, anybody you talked to that might have something to do with this mess."

  "Oh, you're ready to hear from the pro, eh?"

  He snagged another stool and sat down beside her. "Hell yes, baby, tell me all you know."

  Finny gave him a rapid, precise summary of her trial by wine with the judge; the interrupted conversation with Cuffy, including the tension between her and Kit Landauer; and what she'd observed of Paige Dexter, primarily the interest she'd taken in Ty Engelman.

  "When I heard the scream—who was that, anyway? The maid or the blond woman?"

  "The blonde," Barelli said. "Name of Simms Bainbridge. She stumbled over Sarandon and ran back into the house. Slam bang into the maid."

  "You sure she didn't kill him?"

  Barelli shrugged tiredly. "As sure as I am of anything. According to her and the guy with the accent, she went out for a little slap and tickle with him."