I rushed outside and looked up and down the street: no dark Fiat, no Frances. I saw motion across the street. Frances’s black coat was just visible moving beyond the stand of fireweed at the Routts’ place. I darted after her. If it was Frances, what was she doing with the Routts? Was Dusty feeding Frances information? Given all that Dusty had told me, that didn’t ring true. I had introduced them to each other at the Mignon banquet, for heaven’s sake. Whatever Frances was involved in preceded that introduction, unless they were both lying. What was it Tom had told me? In this business, expect to be deceived.
As I came up the graded driveway, I saw the black-coated figure duck through a door at the side of the house. From the outside it looked like an old-fashioned porch with jalousie windows instead of screens. I’d always assumed the saxophone music had been wafting out of this room, because the slatted windows were the only ones on the Routts’ house that faced the street. With some trepidation I started up the steps to this separate entrance. What would I say? Uh, excuse me, just trying to be neighborly, but by the way, what’s going on?
TURKEY CURRY WITH
RAISIN RICE
1 pound ground turkey
1 cup chopped unpeeled apple
1 cup chopped onion
1 ½ tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon curry powder
1 tablespoon beef bouillon Granules
½ cup nonfat dry milk
2 cups skim milkIn a large sauté pan, sauté the turkey over medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until browned evenly. Drain the turkey on paper towels and set aside.Spray a wide nonstick skillet with vegetable oil spray. Over medium heat, sauté the apple and onion, stirring frequently, until the onion is translucent. Set aside.In another large skillet, heat the olive oil over low heat just until it is warm. Stir in the flour and curry powder. Heat and stir over medium-low heat until the flour begins to bubble. Combine the bouillon granules, dry milk, and skim milk; whisk until combined. (The bouillon granules will dissolve when they are heated in the sauce.) Gradually add the milk mixture to the curry mixture, continuing to stir over medium-low heat until the mixture thickens. When the mixture is thick, add the turkey and the apple-onion mixture. Stir well and heat through. Serve over Raisin Rice.
Serves 4
Raisin Rice: In a large nonstick skillet, toast 1 cup of raw white rice over medium heat, stirring frequently, until most of the rice is brown. (Appearance may be mottled; this is desirable.) Add ½ cup raisins and 2 ¼ cups lowfat chicken stock, bring the mixture to a boil, reduce the heat to low, cover the pan, and cook for 25 minutes or until the liquid is absorbed.
LOWFAT CHICKEN STOCK
12 ⅓ cups canned chicken broth (2 49 ½-ounce cans)
1 large onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
3 to 3 ½ pounds chicken legs and thighs, skinned and all visible fat removed
12 ⅓ cups water (2 cans of water)
1 celery stalk with leaves
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon dried thymeDiscard fat from the top of the cans of chicken broth. Heat a very large stockpot. (If you do not have a very large stockpot, you can divide the ingredients and make the stock in two stockpots.) Remove from the heat and spray twice with vegetable oil spray. Toss in the onion and carrot, lower the heat, and cover the pot. Cook, stirring frequently, over medium-high, add the chicken, and cook until the chicken flesh is browned on both sides, about 5 minutes. Pour in the chicken broth and water, add the celery and bay leaves, and bring to a boil. Boil for 5 minutes. As foam accumulates, skim it off and discard. Lower the heat to simmer and add the thyme. Simmer, covered, for 2 hours. Add water as necessary to keep the chicken covered with liquid.Remove the pot from the heat. Remove the chicken and allow to cool, then pick the meat from the bones and reserve for another use. Strain the stock and discard the vegetables and bay leaves. Cool to room temperature. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Lift any congealed fat from the stock and discard. Store for 2 or 3 days in the refrigerator or freeze for longer storage.
Makes 20 to 24 cups
The porch door was open. Frances stood next to a stout man whose white hair was brushed back in thin streaks. She was talking rapidly and intensely. Their backs were to me, and they were both oblivious of my presence. From the doorway I could see the porch room was simply furnished with a futon piled with unfashionably striped pillows, two mismatched chairs, and a table. On the table was an old rotary-dial telephone and a sax.
My attention was drawn to the older man listening intently to Frances. This, I assumed, was the grandfather I’d never seen. I tapped on the aluminum doorframe. Frances turned abruptly and fell silent.
“Excuse me?” I said politely. “May I come in?” Without waiting for a reply, I edged into the room. Through the jalousie windows on the other side of the small room, the roof of Frances’s Fiat was just visible. So this was where she’d been parking. But who had told her when I was home? Maybe the grandfather was the one who’d been spying on my house. Uneasily, I asked, “Is Dusty home?” The man turned slightly in my direction, but not fully. “Are you Dusty’s grandfather?” I asked politely. “I’m your neighbor, Goldy Schulz. Frances was just over at my house….” I offered my hand. He ignored it.
Mr. Routt’s face looked like a pie crust that had spilled over its edges. I looked at Frances for guidance, but her face had tightened in quiet fury at my appearance.
I said, “Mr. Routt?”
He turned large, watery blue eyes to me. There was no way this man had been spying on my house. He was blind.
I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Please forgive the intrusion,” I added bitterly. I gave Frances the most withering glance I could muster. She assumed an indifferent demeanor and shrugged, as if to say, You got yourself into this.
“It’s not her fault,” said the old man. His voice cracked and wheezed, as if it were rusted from lack of use. “She was doing something for me. Please, Mrs. Schulz, don’t be upset with Frances.”
The three of us stood in the spare, dismal room for a moment without speaking. The man shifted from one foot to the other, as if he were trying to decide what to tell me.
“I’m John Routt, Mrs. Schulz,” he said at last. His rumpled white shirt hung in soft folds, as if it had been washed and dried but not ironed. The shirt was slack over John Routt’s chest, but a button strained to stay clasped over his copious stomach. His gray pants were as wrinkled as the shirt. I had the painful feeling that he did his own laundry.
“Forgive me,” I said again, “I was just trying to find out why Frances here”—I glared at her—“always seems to be turning up only when she’s certain I’m home.” Then I remembered the truck outside my window during the storm. I added, “Or spying on me at night.”
“I am not now, nor have I ever, been engaged in spying on you,” Frances countered defensively. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
“Mr. Routt,” I said, “I don’t know what’s going on here or how you’re involved.” To Frances, I said acidly, “Do you want to come back to my house, Ms. Journalism? Tell me the real reason you went in disguise to Prince & Grogan? Or is department store intelligence not on the same level with spying on a caterer?”
Frances drew a cigarette out of her purse. She lit it and said, “Goldy, chill out. I’m working on a story. That’s all you’ve ever needed to know.” She blew smoke in my direction.
“Oh, really? Are you going to do a story on how the Prince & Grogan head of security was found dead this afternoon?”
This had the desired effect. Frances’s body jerked. The cigarette dropped from her fingers.
“Nicholas Gentileschi?” John Routt said. “Dead?”
“Yes. Did you know him?”
John Routt was shaking his head. “No. No, I did not.”
I said, “Well, then—”
His shoulders slumped. There was an uncomfortable silence. “You see, Mrs. Schulz,” he said fi
nally. “I was doing something for Frances and she was doing something for me.”
“And what was that? I’m sorry, but this does affect our family … you see, my helper, Julian Teller, lost a dear friend—”
“I know,” said John Routt. He absentmindedly patted his wrinkled pants. “Oh, Mrs. Schulz, the reason I hired Frances is that Nicholas Gentileschi suspected my granddaughter of theft. I’m sorry to hear he died, but I’m not surprised, with the people we’re dealing with. Frances and I were trying to clear Dusty. That’s why we needed the receipt. That’s why Frances was asking you for it. Does that make sense? Dusty was being accused of not giving receipts, but our suspicion was that the whole place has a receipt problem.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I don’t know what happened to the receipt. I saw it, but then Nick Gentileschi’s body … the receipt is probably back at the store. And I still don’t understand why you would need it.”
John Routt said, “There has been some theft at the store. I was afraid Gentileschi suspected I was behind the thievery. You see, what you may not know is that I have a history with Foucault-Reiser Cosmetics.”
I was suddenly aware of how much work I had to do before deadline time for the Braithwaites’ party. What John Routt was saying confused me. Outside, raindrops began to fall.
I said, “What history? What theft?”
He invited me to sit down. When the three of us were settled in the sparsely decorated room, he smiled wryly. “Mrs. Schulz, did your husband serve in Vietnam?”
Taken off guard, I said, “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. That was before I knew him, though.”
“And he came back and became a policeman,” Mr. Routt said.
“He … finished his degree first, I think. Then he went into law enforcement.”
Frances grunted, but John Routt held up an age-spotted hand. “When I got back from Korea in ’fifty-four, I was twenty-one. I tried to get into the police academy in—”
“Don’t, John,” Frances interrupted sharply. “Don’t tell her where. No specifics. She doesn’t need to know, for crying out loud! Goldy, I’m still trying to salvage a story here. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep you and your investigator husband out of this until it’s published. Please at least let me do that.”
John Routt shook his head. He continued, “… tried to get into the police academy … in the small town I was from. But there weren’t any openings. No openings. There or anywhere else.” He paused for a long time, his eyes closed. When he opened them he clucked his tongue. “Did you ever feel utterly worthless, Mrs. Schulz? As if everything that went wrong in your life Was your fault?”
“Yes,” I said evenly, “I have felt that way. For seven years, as a matter of fact.”
“And what did you do to change things?” he asked. His watery eyes blinked as he waited for my answer.
“I got a divorce and started a catering business.”
Again John Routt clucked. “I should have done that! My goodness. Actually, I didn’t want a divorce, I just wanted a job. But there weren’t any jobs.” He sighed. “So I robbed a bank. More accurately, I drove the getaway car for a couple of buddies of mine.”
The bank job. Tom had mentioned a famous bank robbery involving a man named Routt. His memory had been correct. Our neighbor was the same Routt. No wonder Sally Routt had told Dusty she was afraid of what the church helping to build their house might find out. “So if you were driving a getaway car, you … must have been able to—” I began. Frances groaned.
“Yes,” John Routt said softly. “I had my vision then. But I got caught and convicted for armed robbery. Eventually I ended up at the state penitentiary in—”
“John!” Frances interjected.
“I went to a state penitentiary,” John Routt continued. “I was young,” he said. “I was married. And so, Mrs. Schulz, when I was promised points in the time-off-for-good-behavior program, I took it.” For the first time, his voice wavered. His head drooped forward. Frances and I sat very still as John Routt collected himself. “Catch was,” he went on, “to get my time off, I had to volunteer for cosmetics testing from a company called Foucault-Reiser.” He let out a self-deprecating cackle. “And here I am! The chemical the company used on me caused an infection in one eye. It spread to the other eye as quick as you could imagine. They don’t use that chemical in cosmetics, thank the Lord. Because of me! I’m the reason your eyes don’t burn when you smear your mascara.”
“God help us,” I said softly, appalled. I remembered Frances’s cryptic answer to my demand to know what she was up to: Did you ever hear of Ray Charles?
Frances stood up. “John, you don’t have to tell her all this. We’ll get Mignon, one way or another. It is going to happen.”
“Let me finish telling Mrs. Schulz what I’m going to tell her, will you, Frances? Please?”
She flopped back in her chair and rooted around for a cigarette.
John Routt shook his head and gestured with his large, trembling hands. Overhead, the rain beat down harder. “The warden was being paid by Foucault-Reiser, and he said if I told what had happened when their chemical ruined my eyes, I’d never get out of that place. Foucault-Reiser gave me some money, and I was released early. And before you ask, no, I didn’t sue.” When he shook his head, some strands of white hair came loose again. He patted them back into place. “Nobody but rich folks sued back then. I learned to play the saxophone. My wife, Jaylene, supported us by being a nurse. But when Jaylene died last year, I came to live with my daughter. Sally’s had a hard life … connected up with two men who wouldn’t marry her … well. Anyway, Sally’s the one, Dusty’s mother, that is, who read me the article Frances did on the high cost of cosmetics. That’s why Frances is here. I called her. I told her I might have a big story for her newspaper.” He chuckled. “She was doing it all for me, trying to get justice, trying to get a big story.” His voice turned serious. “I didn’t want my granddaughter to know. God only knows why she took a job with that same company. She knew what happened to me, but … I guess it’s like the children of race car drivers, wanting to get involved in the same thing….” He cackled sarcastically. “They must pay well. They’ve always paid well. But no matter what, I didn’t want to get Dusty involved.”
I could hear Dusty’s voice as she applied eyeshadow to my lids: Don’t open your eyes! You don’t know what could happen! God only knew why she’d taken the job, indeed. I wondered where Dusty was.
Frances said, “John—”
“Frances, don’t keep on. Mrs. Schulz?”
“Please call me Goldy.”
“I just want to finish telling you, since you wanted to know why Frances was here. Last month, just after Frances and I started working together, Dusty told us they were targeting her for employee theft.” He shook his head. “I thought, oh my Lord! They must know—Mignon, the parent company, Foucault-Reiser—someone must know I’m trying to get back at them! So they’re targeting my granddaughter! They’re trying to frame her with employee theft!”
Frances could no longer contain herself. “And then Claire Satterfield was run down,” she interrupted. “For a while I even thought they were trying to get me.”
I felt more bewildered than ever. “Who is they? And why spy on me?”
Frances Markasian shook her head at my profound ignorance. “First of all, Goldy,” she said tartly, “no one is spying on you.” She blew out smoke. “John has superdeveloped hearing. We knew you had the food fair this morning, and I didn’t want to risk going into that store again so soon. So we had this idea that you could buy some stuff for us, and see if any of the other sales associates were neglecting to give receipts. That’s probably all that happened to Dusty … she just forgot to give somebody a receipt! Anyway … John heard your van come back, that’s how we knew you were home. That’s it. They is Mignon Cosmetics, Goldy.” She announced it the way a math teacher explains the end of a formula to a slow student. “It’s all a conspiracy, don’t yo
u see?”
“No, I don’t see.”
Frances’s voice became frustrated. “Mignon wanted to undermine John’s story, so they cast suspicion on his granddaughter. When that didn’t work, they killed Claire Satterfield, one of their top sales producers. And now they’ve killed the security guy. If John comes forward with his story, they’ll be able to say, ‘Ah-ha! This is the guy who’s been causing all our problems, a convict undermining our company using hired killers!’ Don’t you get it?”
I’m not long on conspiracy theories. The JFK assassination still has me stumped. Watergate had seemed beyond belief, and it had actually been true. But Frances, I could tell, was not going to be dissuaded. And I wasn’t going to argue with her. My kitchen was calling. I had cooking to do if the Braithwaites’ guests were going to eat. Tom and the cops could separate the myth from the reality. I had just one last question.
“Frances, why were you so insistent about having the receipt?”
“Because Dusty’s been in so much trouble—” John began.
“Because Dusty was convinced she was being framed,” Frances rasped. “Claire said Gentileschi had been watching Dusty since the last inventory.”
“Forgive me for being thick,” I interrupted. “Why since the inventory?”
John waved Frances’s objections away. He said, “It goes like this: A customer, say it’s you”—he gestured with an open hand—“makes a large cash purchase. Say you buy … a scarf. The employee makes a big show of putting your receipt in the bag, but instead he palms it.” He closed his hand. “Then the employee uses your receipt to do a cash refund to himself. If you discover you don’t have the receipt at the end of the day, you—the shopper—you say, oops, I musta lost it in all my shopping. And nobody’s the wiser until inventory time six months later, when they find out a scarf’s been shoplifted. Or at least, that’s what they think.”
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