“Julian!” I yelled. “Let’s get out of here!”
Julian didn’t move.
“Why … won’t … you … leave?” Charles Braithwaite bellowed. He stood with his thin legs apart, his long arms outstretched. “Nothing … means … anything.” Then, defeated, he stumbled through the fallen books and sank against one of the tables. In a much lower, more subdued voice, he murmured, “If you will just please go away, I won’t turn you in for smoking as a minor.”
The guy was losing it, that much was dear. First he was howling like a crazy person, then he was making calm pronouncements. I was sorely tempted to exit as bidden, but Julian stepped with determination over the piles of disheveled books.
“Dr. Braithwaite,” he said calmly, “you’re upset.” Smart kid, I thought. Just keep your tone low. Smarter yet, I thought ruefully, get the heck out. Julian held out his hand. “Why don’t you just come up with us—”
“No!” Charles Braithwaite roared, his white hair shaking wildly. “Leave me alone!”
“Come on, Julian,” I implored from the entrance to the greenhouse. “Let’s just—”
“I’m not doing it,” Julian said in my direction, his voice sharp but still low. “We’re not leaving without him. Look, Dr. Braithwaite, you don’t have to—”
The white-haired man raised a mournful face to Julian. He raised his index finger, calm again in his bizarre way. He acted as if he were instructing Julian in an important point of molecular biology. “Claire Satterfield brought something into my life that I’d never had. So there’s just one thing I want you to know before I die.” Oh hell, I thought. “And that is,” he continued, “that you did not cause the accident with my … wife.” He spat out the word. “No. Babs was following you and Claire because she thought you were bringing Claire to me for … an assignation. You didn’t fail to signal, my wife was following too … closely. So there you are.” He crossed his arms, QED.
“Claire?” asked Julian. “You … and …” He shook his head and seemed to make a decision. “It’s okay, Dr. Braithwaite, it’s … over.” Julian looked around the lab, trying to assess, I thought, how Charles Braithwaite could fulfill what seemed to be his desire to do himself in. He picked up the pot he’d placed on the near table. “Come on, look! You’ve created a blue rose! You’ve got a lot to live for—”
“I wanted to give it to her,” Charles said wistfully. Overhead, the finale firework showered red, white, and blue sparkles that absurdly lit the greenhouse with twinkling light, illuminating the tears on his stricken face. “To Claire. That’s why I was in the mall garage that day. I wanted to give it to her as my parting gift. The flower named after her, because it was so beautiful. So rare.” He looked at Julian and shrugged. “And then I—can you blame me? I heard that terrible sound, and I knew. You want to know the truth? I thought my wife had done it. Maybe she did! Maybe she hired somebody to do the hit-and-run.” He stretched his arms to their full length. “And it was all Babs’s fault I met Claire in the first place! She sent me in to pick up her damn stuff. And there was Claire, acting as if I were … as if I were the most wonderful …” He dropped his arms and shook his head vigorously, as if he’d just come to the realization of whatever it was he’d been concentrating on before he’d digressed. “Listen,” he said abruptly, “I’ve thought this all through. Just leave me in peace, please. Now, all right?”
“Let’s go talk about it up at the house!” Julian said brightly. “I mean really, Dr. Braithwaite, you’re too young to die. You need to give it some more thought.”
“No!” wailed Charles Braithwaite. “Go away!” He stepped agilely over the books, and to my shock, put both arms around the vat of liquid nitrogen. This was how he was going to kill himself. Using liquid nitrogen. We had to get out. Charles began to rock the tank. “Can’t you hear?” he roared. “This is the end! Get out of the way!”
“Julian!” I shrieked.
But Julian ignored me. He stepped briskly over the pile of books and grabbed Charles Braithwaite’s arm. The vat of liquid nitrogen continued to rock. Yanking hard, Julian pulled Charles away just as the top came off the tank.
“Get out!” Julian shouted to me as he dragged a flailing Charles in my direction. “Go!”
I banged open the door. When I looked back, the tank teetered as the freezing chemical splashed over one side, emitting clouds of white smoke. Julian scrambled toward the exit, his arms firmly encircling Charles Braithwaite’s chest. Charles, his white hair wild, kicked halfheartedly. But he was no match for young Julian’s strength. The three of us bounded out of the greenhouse just as the vat crashed downward. I couldn’t help it—I looked back again, just in time to see the liquid nitrogen spilling over and destroying the blue rose plants.
Our odd trio darted through the guests meandering up to the house. We turned deaf ears to “Oh my goodness, what’s the matter with Charlie!” and “The fireworks must have really upset him!” and laughing exclamations of that ilk. In the kitchen I called 911 and told them who I was, where we were, and what was going on.
“Liquid nitrogen?” was the deputy’s incredulous response. “Liquid nitrogen? Are you sure that’s all it was? Were there any other chemicals? We’re going to have to get the toxic waste team up there. Was this part of some wacko Fourth of July party?”
“No, no,” I said. “Any chance you could put me through to Tom Schulz?”
The deputy stalled and kept asking me questions until I assured him I wasn’t going to hang up, I just wanted to talk to Tom instead of him. He said he’d transfer me. Then he put me on hold.
I tapped my fingers on the kitchen counter and watched as Julian ministered to Charles Braithwaite. Using a low, quiet voice, Julian admonished Charles to lie relaxed on the spotless kitchen floor, and to breathe normally. Was he hurt, Julian wanted to know. When Charles shook his head, Julian asked him who he was and what was going on. Tears ran down Charles’s thin face as he gave halting responses to Julian’s steady questions. Then Julian patted his shoulders and checked his pulse and told him in a voice that rippled out like custard that everything was going to be all right.
Julian amazed me, really. He had proven himself to be singlemindedly ambitious in the schoolroom and the kitchen. He loved and hated with a ferocity that was frightening and occasionally explosive. But there were times like these when I was reminded he’d spent most of his life among the Navajo in Bluff, Utah. He had an uncanny ability to act the wise healer when it was heeded. I watched him calmly checking Charles Braithwaite for shock. What had he said to Charles in the greenhouse? You’re too young to die. Claire Satterfield had been much too young to die too. What was still unclear to me was whether Julian would be able to heal from that terrible loss. He was too young to have the loving part of himself die.
The deputy’s voice crackled in my ear. ‘Tom Schulz isn’t here.’ At that moment, the first wave of law-enforcement and fire vehicles pulled up, so I signed off.
Hours later, when the fireworks had ended and the moon had risen and the guests—including an angry Tony Royce, without his promised brownies—had finally left, when Babs Braithwaite had exploded in a fit of hysterics and Charles had been taken to the hospital for observation, when the toxic-waste team had realized only nitrogen—a fertilizer—had spilled, and Julian had decided to spend the night at a friend’s, I drove the van home. The fireworks spectators had all departed, but in the moonlight I could see the enormous mess of trash they’d left on the golf course by the lake.
I came through the door just before two A.M. Tom, amazingly enough, was in the kitchen making chocolate ice cream. Waiting for me, and undoubtedly too wired from the investigation to sleep, he’d decided to concoct a Neapolitan ice cream torte, with a chocolate-cookie-crumb base and layers of homemade vanilla, fresh strawberry, and finally dark chocolate ice cream. Allowing thirty minutes per batch of ice cream, I figured he’d been at this for quite some time. The kitchen was a mess of cream containers, beaters, and bowls.
> “It’s not exactly the colors of the flag,” he said ruefully when I peered into the bowl and raised my eyebrows. “But it’s gonna be great. I can’t wait for you to try it. Where’ve you been anyway? I guess my little ruse didn’t work.”
“Little ruse? Little ruse? Is that what you call it?” I glared at him. He grinned widely. After a few seconds of trying to keep up my withering stare, I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “And when did you have time to do all that menu planning, Mr. Investigator? I am never, never going to forgive you.”
He grabbed me by the waist and swung me perilously close to the clutter of ice creams. “Oh, sure you’re going to forgive me,” he reassured me as I giggled wildly. “And I didn’t have time to do the cooking. I faxed your recipes down to a chef from a restaurant near the sheriff’s department, and paid him to get the ingredients together and make the cookies and the soup and the bread dough. It took me less than five minutes. Anyway, knowing you, the risotto didn’t stop you, it just slowed you down. The fireworks were over a couple of hours ago. Was the party okay?”
He sat me down on a chair and I told him all about it. I assured him that Julian had been a champ and that Dr. Charles Braithwaite would survive, especially if he could get some intensive psychiatric help. I confessed to having a fight with Reggie Hotchkiss, and that Julian had been involved. Tom seemed worried—did I think Hotchkiss had thrown the bleach water and left the note? I said I had no idea. He asked if Reggie could know where Julian was tonight, and I told him Reggie had left long before Julian had decided to go his friend’s house.
“Think you’ll ever cater for the Braithwaites again?” he asked.
“No. And I don’t care either. I am kind of disappointed that they may be innocent in all this. I still don’t trust either of them.”
When I finished talking, Tom wordlessly cut me a wide wedge of the triple-layered torte. The chocolate ice cream was still soft over the more solid layers of strawberry and vanilla. Biting into the three delicious flavors and through the crunchy chocolate-cookie crust, I was reminded of childhood birthday parties in New Jersey, where Neapolitan ice cream and chocolate cake were the order of the day.
I told Tom, “This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted in my entire life. But you know we shouldn’t have it. We don’t want to get into the kind of situation … like Marla.”
Tom put his arms around me. “Everything in moderation, Miss G. Besides, you’re too young to have a heart attack.”
“Excuse me,” I blubbered, “but I am not.” Too young. It seemed that phrase was cropping up a lot lately. I even remembered using it with Arch, when I’d told him he was too young to be using sixties language….
I sat up straight. Wait a cotton-picking minute.
“Ah-ha!” said Tom. “She’s changing her mind. She’s going to have some Neapolitan ice cream after all—”
“Tom,” I said urgently, “who did Shaman Krill say he worked for?”
“He didn’t. I’ve been laboring on that guy day and night. He won’t tell us jack.”
“But he wasn’t with the animal rights people, you know that. And he’s an actor. How old would you say he was?”
“About as old as this Neapolitan ice cream is going to be by the time you eat it.”
“Tom!”
“I forget. Twenty-seven, maybe.”
“So he wasn’t old enough to know any of that sixties lingo he was using with us like ‘fascist pig’ and ‘capitalist imperialist’ and all that.”
“There are movies,” Tom said dubiously. “Documentaries.”
“And scripts,” I said. To humor him, I had a bit of ice cream. He’d put fresh strawberries into the pink layer. It was like chilled, succulent essence of fruit. “You know who uses that kind of language? For whom it’s second nature, don’t you?”
He cocked his head and lifted his eyebrows. “Nope. But I just know you’re going to tell me.”
“Reggie Hotchkiss. He knows the lingo. He paid for the demonstration, I’ll bet, to disrupt Mignon. Shaman Krill is a Reggie Hotchkiss plant. Maybe Reggie ran Claire down himself. Oh, Lord, and I had a fight with him tonight….”
Tom said, “The security for this house is airtight. And I have a forty-five, don’t forget.”
“You don’t believe me. I’ll bet you a thousand dollars Reggie has something to do with the murders at that department store.”
Tom reached over and began to unbutton the top of my blouse. “Guess what? I get to sleep in tomorrow. No strategy meeting first thing. And why don’t you bet something I really want?”
I shook my head. “You know what being newly married to you is like? It’s like walking a marathon instead of running it. I hardly ever get to see you, so we’re always in … what’s it called? The heady throes of romance. At the rate we’re going, we’ll be newlyweds for the next ten years.”
“So living with me is like stopping smoking and walking a marathon. What’s a heady throe of romance?”
“Plus I can see you’re just bowled over with my marvelous powers of deduction.”
He kept unbuttoning. “As always.”
“And I see catching a killer is the highest priority for you right now.”
He let go of my blouse and reached for the phone. “I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that I can put in a call to have Shaman Krill picked up faster than you can get those clothes off and meet me upstairs.”
I didn’t collect on his bet. I could have. When Tom reached the sheriff’s department, they—true to form—put him on hold. I even had time for a shower.
Later, much later, I murmured, “I love you, love you, love you,” into his ear and buried my nose in his short, sweet-smelling hair. For a night that had taken so many bizarre turns, this one was ending up pretty well. He pulled me in close. Pale moonlight filled our bedroom. I felt sleep fall as gently as the pink bursts of fireworks had scattered their lights over the lake.
When Sunday morning came, Tom was still sleeping soundly. I slipped out of bed with the idea that a hefty dose of caffeine was in order. But Scout the cat boldly rolled onto his back in front of the espresso machine and demanded attention. I rubbed his stomach as he writhed from side to side, demanding more! more! Eventually he decided he’d had enough affection and hopped off the counter, and I was able to load the machine with fresh beans and water. Soon dark strands of espresso hissed into the twin shot glasses and I poured them over milk and ice and stepped out onto the front porch.
The brilliant morning sky promised a return to hot weather. Geraniums and johnny-jump-ups in the porch pots moved in the breeze. A dog barked in the distance. Across the street, the Routts’ house was silent: no Colin crying, no jazz saxophone. The morning of the fifth of July always felt odd. It was as if time had slipped around midnight during the fight for independence, and left the whole country to suffer a summer hangover.
I sipped my icy latte and wondered how Charles Braithwaite was doing. Julian had just gone through shock. He’d managed to recover fairly quickly. But Charles was older. Age usually dictated a longer recuperation from trauma. And speaking of recovering from trauma, Marla was due to greet the world again this afternoon. I checked my watch: seven-twenty.
When I finished the coffee I felt heavy-hearted and tired. I toyed with the idea of going back to bed. But before I could do so, the phone rang. I bolted for it so the ringing wouldn’t wake up Tom. It was Officer Boyd from the sheriff’s department.
“He’s asleep,” I whispered. “Can it wait?”
“Just tell him we got Krill,” said Boyd. “Tom said it was your idea anyway, that the guy was a phony. Looks as if you were right, Goldy. Krill buckled when we asked him if his employer was Hotchkiss. He told us Hotchkiss hired him to be disruptive, even gave him a script. The lingo, the chants, the dead bunny—you name it.”
“But did Krill drive the truck that killed Claire? Did he … have some connection to Gentileschi?”
“Not that he’ll admit to. But don’t
worry,” Boyd said in his laconic, confident manner. “He’ll crack. Give it time. Tell Schulz when he wakes up that we’ll have a confession in no time.”
I hung up. I remembered my promise to give an update on Marla to the St. Luke’s parishioners at the early service. Rather than wake Tom, I left him a note on the kitchen table that said Boyd was working on Krill and that he should call the department. As I quietly slid into a skirt and blouse, the key to Prince & Grogan storage caught my eye from where I’d left it on the bureau after removing it from my bra on Friday. I was, after all, going to church, I reflected guiltily, and there was that bit about thou shalt not steal. I slid the key into my pocket. I would return the key. Eventually.
The sparse congregation at St Luke’s all looked droopy-eyed. The interim pastor, who was serving while a parish committee searched for a new rector after the loss of our last one, forgot to turn on the altar lights, but no one minded. We moved slowly through the prayers. Thankfully, there weren’t any hymns. The choir, the organist, and our voices, were on vacation. When asked by the priest, I gave a very brief update on Marla’s condition. During the intercessions, when we made special requests for intervention and healing, I tried to allow my mind to become blank. The excitement of the past few days would eventually fade. The spirit would return to its old rhythms. Into the blankness I summoned Marla’s face. Then Charles Braithwaite’s, then old Mr. Routt’s. I prayed for Julian, for the repose of the souls of Claire and Nick.
Without warning, the parade of faces became muddled in my mind. The more I struggled to focus, the more curiosity insinuated itself, like Scout plopping between me and the espresso machine. You’re tired, I told myself. You’ve been through a lot. I leaned back in the pew.
All around me parishioners continued to offer their supplications. I opened my eyes, then shut them. It didn’t help. My mind was preoccupied with images, questions, memories that didn’t connect. I remembered Arch repeating his science teacher’s assertion that the memory was like a Rolodex. When you can’t remember something, it’s not that you don’t have the information. You just can’t access it. In my mind’s eye I saw a vehicle following mine down to the mall the morning of the Mignon banquet. Saw again someone watching outside our house at night. Heard Shaman Krill shout sixties-style derision, saw him swing a dead rabbit at me. Viewed the pain on Mr. Routt’s unseeing face. Felt the spray of glass as Nick Gentileschi’s body hit the Mignon counter.
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