“First you tell me something, Goldy. Did you ever get something for nothing? Listen—I’ll come visit you at the food fair, okay? Maybe then you’ll be ready to have a real chat.”
Before I could retort, she hung up. She wasn’t going to share anything she knew with me until I gave her information. And if I did that, I could just imagine the wrath of Investigator Tom Schulz. Still, he’d be interested to hear about bullying activist Shaman Krill, if he hadn’t already. Maybe you had to have a weird name to get into Spare the Hares. I slowly swished the spoon through the pot of dark barbecue sauce. There were two things Frances had been digging for: Had I known Claire was involved with other men? And who was Shaman Krill? I wondered if the two questions were related.
But that was speculation. I returned to my culinary duties to chop, boil, and beat my frustration away. I gathered cocoa powder, flour, sugar, and egg whites, and got out the recipe for the fudge cookies. The dark, delicious cookies had been one of two great inventions in my search for a lowfat chocolate torte. The other had been a lowfat chocolate soufflé that had worked not in the oven but on top of the stove. I sifted the cocoa, flour, baking powder, and salt and beat egg whites, then stirred oil, sugar, and vanilla. After combining all the ingredients, I put the cookie batter away to chill. I had just retrieved the ingredients for icing when the doorbell rang. Oh good, I thought: Marla. Finally.
I looked through the peephole prepared to see my big-bodied, big-hearted friend triumphantly holding up the bags of gourmet goodies she always brought to ease tense or troubling situations. But anticipatory delight quickly froze to dread. The Jerk’s distorted mug grinned broadly into the peephole’s circular eye.
“Let me in, Goldy,” he bellowed. “I have to talk to you!”
Fear opened a hollow in my stomach. In the years since the divorce, my ex-husband had rarely demanded to talk to me. Looking for Arch, he either barged in angrily—pre-security system—or waited sullenly for our son on the doorstep. But this afternoon Arch was doing tie-dying with Todd. I looked out at John Richard, trying to decide what to do. He drew back in a dramatic gesture from the door and held his arms out. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, Polo shirt, Top-Siders without socks—the very portrait of a rich guy.
“I’ve got news,” he shouted, pressing his face in again at the peephole. “Bad news! You want to hear it or not?” He added snidely, “It concerns somebody you care about a lot!”
I really did not want to see him. The day had been awful enough. And yet here he was, doing a typical power-trip, teasing with the possibility of bad news. I hesitated. The security system was disarmed. I could go out on the porch to talk to him. All I had to do was unlock the dead bolt and walk out the door. But when I started to fumble with the bolt, the phone rang in the kitchen. Darn it all, anyway. I dashed for the kitchen.
“Goldilocks’ Catering—” I began breathlessly. The Jerk was banging on the front door. There was a smart thwack of wood against metal. I heard the Jerk curse loudly. “Goldilocks’ Catering,” I repeated, “Where Everything—”
“It’s me,” Tom interrupted. “I’m at the hospital.”
“Boo!” said John Richard Korman as he walked up behind me. His breath smelled of whiskey. I shrieked and dropped the phone.
“Who’s that?” said Tom. Coming from the dropped phone, his voice was distant but clearly alarmed. “Goldy? Are you there?”
I stared furiously at my ex-husband, who gave me a wide-eyed mocking leer in return. Involuntarily, I glanced around for my wooden knifeblock. John Richard followed my gaze and wagged one finger at me. He moved in the direction of the knifeblock, scooped it up, and cradled it and its protruding black handles as he moved into the dining room. Goose bumps pimpled my arms. By the time John Richard walked empty-handed back into the kitchen, I’d managed to pick up the dangling receiver. “It’s … John Richard, and Arch isn’t home, but John Richard says that there’s bad—”
“For crying out loud, Goldy, what the hell is he doing there?” Tom hollered. “Get him out! Now!”
I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see the Jerk’s furious expression. “Tell me how Julian is,” I said firmly into the receiver. “Then I will.”
“I’m not calling about Julian—” Tom began.
“Hey, Gol-dy-y!” the Jerk said calmly. Nastily. “He’s not calling about Juli-a-n. He’s at the hospital and he’s calling about somebody else.”
“This is bad news—” Tom began again.
John Richard grabbed the receiver out of my hand and slammed it down in its cradle. I closed my fists and glared at him.
“Listen to me, goddammit!” Dr. John Richard Korman shouted in my face. “Marla’s had a heart attack!”
A what?”
“Are you deaf?” He lowered his voice, sat down at the kitchen table, and assumed his all-knowing tone. The mood-switch was both predictable and frightening. “She was trying to jog her lard-assed self around the lake. She got home, didn’t feel well, and called her g.p. He hadn’t seen her in five years, of course, so when she described her symptoms, he sent in some paramedics, and they called for the Flight-for-Life copter.” The phone on the counter rang again. The muscles in John Richard’s face locked in anger. I knew the look. Now he was just a time bomb. He sat at the kitchen table and said too calmly, “I would like to talk to you without interruption.”
My throat constricted with the old fear. My palms itched to answer the insistent rings. But I knew better than to defy the Jerk. As the phone continued to ring, John Richard made no move to answer it. He crossed his legs. Ever smooth, ever urbane. But I was watching. He said, “You won’t get in to see her without me.”
“That’s not true,” I said, trying to sound unruffled. “Look, you’ve been drinking.” It didn’t take much to set John Richard off. Two ounces of scotch was enough to ignite him for at least four hours. “Why don’t you just—”
“Are you interested in Marla or not?” His eyes blazed and he tightened the formidable muscles in his arms. “I mean, I thought she was your best friend.”
The phone rang and rang. I didn’t take my eyes off John Richard. “Have you seen her?”
“No, no, I was waiting to take you down,” he said with mock sweetness. John Richard leaned forward. A hard pain knotted in my chest. “Whether you like it or not, Miss Piss, as an ex-husband, I am a relative.” The phone shrilled. Tears pricked my eyes. I hated to be so paralyzed with fear. Marla. Forty-five years old. A heart attack. The Jerk, unheeding, talked. “You, as the friend who fed her all the cholesterol-filled crap that blocked her arteries, are not a relative. Friends might not be able to get into the Coronary Care Unit whenever they want. Relatives can. Are you with me so far? So if you want to see Marla at the hospital, I’m going to have to go in with you. Am I getting through to you?”
Any moment, I thought. Any moment and this man who worked out with the fanaticism of an Olympic athlete could take hold of one of my wrists and shatter it against the table with such force that I wouldn’t be able to knead bread for a year. I kept my eyes on his maniacally composed face and picked up the receiver. “I’m okay,” I said without my customary greeting. On the other end, Tom noisily let out air, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Thanks for calling back, Tom. He’s just leaving.”
“Just leaving?” Tom yelled. “You mean he’s still there? I’m staying on this phone until he’s out of that house and that door is locked and bolted. Turn that security system back on. If you can’t do that, get out. Understand? Goldy? You listening? I can get the 911 operator to call your neighbor. Have a department car there in ten minutes.”
I turned to my ex-husband. “Please go,” I said firmly. “Now. He’s going to send in the authorities. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Dr. John Richard Korman leapt to his feet, grabbed the box of cocoa I’d used for the cookies and flung it against the wall. I screamed as brown powder exploded everywhere. John Richard dusted his hands and gave me a look: Now why did y
ou make that necessary?
“Get out,” I said evenly. “Leave. Nine and a half minutes, and you’re in a lot of trouble.” He’d thrown something because he was thwarted. I wouldn’t go to the hospital with him, and I had paid.
The Jerk assumed an attitude of nonchalance and shrugged. Then, without another word, he withdrew from the kitchen and sauntered his Bermuda-shorted self through the front door. I followed, pressed the bolt into place and armed the system, then ran back to the phone.
“Miss G.?” I broke out in a sweat from the relief of hearing Tom’s old term of endearment. “Will you please talk to me?”
“He’s gone,” I said breathlessly. “Can you tell me where, I mean, how long ago did she … how is she?” I remembered all too vividly Marla’s sad history, that her father had died from a heart attack when she was very young.
“She’s okay. In the Coronary Care Unit at Southwest Hospital. She had a mild heart attack this morning either before or after jogging around Aspen Meadow Lake. Since when is she a jogger?”
“Since never,” I replied angrily, “and she’s on some weird lemon-and-rice diet—”
“Not anymore, she isn’t. You coming down here or what? I probably won’t be able to stay. The investigation of the death over in the mall garage is getting under way.”
I replied that I was on my way and that he shouldn’t wait for me. I scribbled a note to Arch: Back by dinner. How was I going to tell Arch what had happened to Julian or Marla? He adored them both. Stepping out the back door, I glanced around to make sure the Jerk wasn’t lurking in the bushes. That would have been typical of him. I also checked the van’s rear area. It was empty. I locked the doors, gunned the engine, and let the speedometer needle quiver past seventy as I raced back to Denver. I wished I didn’t know as much as I did about the statistics of heart disease running in families.
My best-friendship with Marla had blossomed out of the bitterness of being divorced from the same horrid man. I shook my head and thought of the cloud of brown cocoa powder erupting as it hit the wall. To get emotional control over his cruelty, Marla and I alternately reviled and ridiculed John Richard. But through the years, the relationship between Marla and me had deepened beyond our mutual crisis. We’d formed a discussion group called Amour Anonymous, for women addicted to their relationships. I zipped past Westside Mall and headed for the parking lot at Southwest Hospital.
Our Amour Anonymous meetings had been alternately heartfelt and hilarious. And when the group petered out, as those kinds of groups tend to do, Marla and I remained steadfast to each other with daily phone calls and long talks over shared meals. Moreover, Marla’s generosity with her considerable wealth meant not only that she was one of my best clients, but that she also referred me to all her rich friends. The people in Marla’s address book had provided an endless stream of assignments for Goldilocks’ Catering, including Babs Braithwaite of the upcoming Independence Day party.
My hands clutched the steering wheel. If the Jerk was right and they wouldn’t admit me to the CCU, I was going to have to come up with some way to talk my way in. Just thinking of John Richard made my flesh crawl. How dare he break into my house and blame my cooking for what had happened to Marla? Of course, that kind of behavior was nothing new for him. John Richard Korman, whose mother had been a hardcore alcoholic, frequently had just enough whiskey to release the enraged demon that lived inside.
But there was some truth in what he said. Marla was indeed a large-bodied woman. She ate with gusto, then dieted remorsefully, never for very long or to much effect. Eventually she always resumed her passionate affair with chocolate chip cookies—and cream-filled cakes. But what worried me more than her erratic eating habits was her phobia concerning doctors and hospitals. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she hadn’t seen her general practitioner for years.
I pulled the van into the hospital lot. Southwest Hospital was a subsidiary of a Denver chain of medical facilities. When Westside Mall was in the process of being refurbished, fundraising and construction began on the new hospital. There was another irony: For all her disdain for doctors, Marla had been one of the most generous donors to Southwest Hospital’s building fund.
Inside the hospital, I followed yellow-painted footprints and then blue ones until I came to the automatic doors of the Coronary Care Unit entrance on the fourth floor. A red-haired receptionist wrinkled her brow at me.
“Name of patient?”
I tried to look both innocent and deeply bereaved. “Marla Korman,” I replied.
“She can see visitors only the first ten minutes of each hour, and that’s just past. You’ll have to wait an hour.”
I said quickly, “She’s my sister. Surely I can see her?”
“And you are …”
“Goldy Korman.”
She consulted a clipboard, then gave me a smug smile. “Is that so? When we asked her about next of kin, she didn’t list you.”
“She’d just, had a heart attack,” I said with an enormous effort at long-suffering bereavement. “What do you expect? I really need to see her. I’m worried sick.”
“I’ll have to see some ID.”
Think. I rummaged through my purse and brought out my sorry-looking fake-leather wallet with its wad of credit card receipts and expired grocery coupons.
“ID?” the receptionist repeated serenely.
Wildly, I wondered how I’d talk myself out of this one. Then I had an inspiration. Well, of course. My fingers deftly pulled out a dog-eared card. Good old Uncle Sam! I handed the nurse my old Social Security card.
“Goldy Korman,” she read, then shot me a suspicious look. “Don’t you have a driver’s license or something?”
I bristled. “If my sister dies while you’re doing the Nazi documentation routine, you’ll never work in a hospital in this state again.”
The receptionist snapped the Social Security card with my old married name onto her clipboard and said to wait, she’d be right back. Well, excuse me, after notifying the federal government of the name change to go with my social security number, I had tried to get a new card. I had called the Social Security Administration numerous times after my divorce, when I’d resumed my maiden name. Their line was always busy. Then I’d called them thirty more times this spring, five years after the divorce, when I remarried and assumed the surname Schulz. Again I’d written to them about the name change. All I wanted was a new card. The line was still busy. If people died listening to that bureaucracy’s busy signal, did their survivors still get benefits?
The red-haired receptionist swished back out. Apparently my old ID had passed muster, because she led me wordlessly through the double doors of the CCU. Curtained cubicles lined two walls, with a nurses’ station at the center. I tried desperately to summon inner fortitude. Marla would need all the positive thoughts I could send her way. I was handed over to a nurse, who motioned me forward.
On a bed at the end of the row of cubicles, Marla seemed to be asleep. Wires and tubes appeared to be attached to every extremity. Monitors clustered around her.
“Ten minutes,” said the nurse firmly. “Don’t excite her.”
I took Marla’s hand, trying not to brush the IV attached to it. She didn’t move. Her complexion was its normal peaches-and-cream color, but her frizzy brown hair, usually held in gold and silver barrettes, was matted against the pillow beneath her head. I rubbed her hand gently.
Her eyes opened in slits. It took her a moment to focus. Then, softly, she groaned. To my delight her plump hand gave mine the slightest squeeze.
“Don’t exert yourself,” I whispered. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
She moaned again, then whispered fiercely, “I am perfectly okay, if I could just convince these idiots of that fact.”
I ignored this. “You’re going to be just fine. By the way, in case anybody asks, I’m your sister.”
She appeared puzzled, then said, “I’m trying to tell you, there’s been some mistake. I had indigestion
. That’s all.” Denial, I knew, is common among heart attack victims, so I said nothing. “Goldy,” she exclaimed, “don’t you believe me? This whole thing is a misunderstanding. I woke up feeling just a little under the weather, and you know how damn hot it’s been.” She twisted in the bed, trying to get comfortable. “So I went for a jog around the lake. I started to feel much better. Nice and cool. Refreshed. Of course, I wasn’t going very fast. I was even thinking you and I could go out for lunch if you weren’t busy. And then I remembered you were doing that cosmetics lunch, which I had decided to skip because I felt so fat.”
“It’s okay,” I said soothingly. “Please, don’t upset yourself.”
“Don’t act as if I’m dying, okay?” Her pretty face contorted with anger. Once more she tried to heave herself up but decided against it, and sagged back against the pillow. “It doesn’t help. You know what my worst fear was when I heard the siren bringing those damn medics? That they would check my driver’s license. They’d know the weight I put down there was a lie. All these years, whenever I hear a siren, that’s what I think. I could just imagine some cop hollering, ‘Leave your vehicle and get on these portable scales! Marla Korman, you’re under arrest!’”
“Marla—”
“So let me finish telling you what happened. Before the paramedics came. I drove home real slowly from the lake. But at home I started to feel bad again—cold sweat, you know, like the flu. So I took aspirin and Mylanta, lots of both, and then I took a shower.” Her voice collapsed into a sigh. “Finally I called Dr. Hodges and he about had a conniption fit, probably because I hadn’t called him in ages. The man is a fanatic. He jumped to the conclusion that something was wrong. Those paramedics came roaring over, and before you knew it I was in this damn helicopter!” Tears slid down her cheeks. “I kept trying to tell them, I’m just woozy. I mean, how would you feel if you had your eardrums breaking with the whump whump sound of rotary blades?” The effort of talking seemed to exhaust her, but she plowed on. “And the sight of paramedics staring down at you? ‘Excuse me, ma’am, whump whump you’ve whump whump had a heart attack’? I said, ‘Oh yeah? What’s that I hear beating?’”
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