She smiled. “Me, too. I haven’t received any calls on my cell since we started over here. But… was that your cell phone I heard?” she asked, lifting one of her silvery eyebrows.
“Don’t tell me you heard it.”
“It wasn’t for me, was it? I mean, just on the off-chance.”
Of course, I knew what was worrying her. “No,” I replied. “It wasn’t about Teddy. It was… my lawyer.”
“Everything’s all right?”
“Oh, yeah.” If it wasn’t, I’d probably be the last to know. I checked my watch: one-thirty. While Liz whisked back into the dining room, I began rinsing out and packing up our containers. The window over the sink revealed that the thickening snow was coming down at an acute slant. This was a sure sign of a fast-moving storm. Liz reappeared, her eyes alight with laughter.
“Two of those widows are under Shane’s spell. He looks like he’s in a state of sexual ecstasy, just waiting for those checks to roll in.”
I smiled. Maybe I wouldn’t have to hold on to Page’s ring for very long, after all. Just don’t ask me to contemplate the safety of those infatuated widows’ investments. In any event, that was beyond my control. What I really needed to know was what was going on with Steve Hulsey, Esquire.
“Look, Liz. As I said, that message was from my criminal defense lawyer. Can you handle clearing while I give him a call?”
“Of course,” she replied cheerfully, as she placed a stack of dirty dishes beside the sink. “I wouldn’t want to miss the widows writing those checks. Fifty thou each.” She glanced outside, then added, “Listen, Goldy, why don’t you let me finish up everything here? It’ll provide some distraction from obsessing about Teddy. Anyway, aren’t you chaperoning a school field trip today?”
“I’m picking Arch and his pals up at their school at four.” I sighed, dreading another chilly encounter with my son. “Thanks for reminding me. Maybe I better see if the attorney wants to huddle before then.”
She nodded and moved back into the dining room. I dialed Steve Hulsey’s number.
“He wants you to meet him at the jail as soon as possible,” his secretary informed me, her voice crisp, efficient, and not at all friendly. “He needs to speak to you about Julian Teller.”
“Why does he need to talk to me about Julian?”
“Mr. Hulsey has taken on his case. Mr. Hulsey is down at the jail now. Mr. Hulsey needs to see you.”
I couldn’t count to ten, so I counted to three. “I’m catering way up by the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve.” I could hear the secretary tapping away at a keyboard. Clearly, my answer wasn’t worth her full attention. I raised my voice a bit. “The snow’s coming down pretty hard. It’ll take me at least half an hour to get down to the jail. Can’t you please tell me what this is about? Can’t I talk to Steve over the phone?”
“Mr. Hulsey will be waiting for you in the jail lobby.” She disconnected before I could protest. I threw the cell phone onto the counter.
At that moment, Marla tiptoed into the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. She wore a royal blue and black wool suit, an onyx and sapphire necklace and matching earrings, and royal blue shoes. She gave me her cat-who-swallowed-the-canary look and filled her cup with coffee from the big percolator. “So,” she began, “the last time I saw you with Liz Fury, there was a bit of a disagreement going on. Now you two are all cozy. What happened?”
“Oh, she’s having problems with her son. In case you haven’t noticed, I have the same kind of problems. Listen,” I rushed on, “Monday night, how did you meet up with Page after she was ejected from the lounge?”
Marla’s eyes widened. “Ellie and I just had to know what had happened, so we went looking for Page at the mall’s security office. The cops had just released her, so we again heard how much she hated and despised Barry Dean and her husband. She was really ready to shop then, so we all headed toward the shoe sale!”
“OK, but were you shopping together? I mean, the whole time in Prince and Grogan?”
Marla crinkled her nose and slurped her coffee. “We all bought a ton of shoes, if that’s what you mean. Why? Does this have something to do with Julian? I’ll do anything to help.”
“I know Ellie went home with Elizabeth Harrington. Did you and Page drive back to Aspen Meadow together?” I pressed.
“No, why? The cops had told Shane they’d take him home, Page said. He’d left his BMW there at the mall, so I drove Page to it. She said she was bringing it back up here.”
“When was that? Eight-thirty? Eight forty-five?” I asked breathlessly.
Marla moved her wrist back and forth; the diamonds on her Rolex sparkled. “It’s a nice watch, Goldy, but I feel it’s gauche always to be checking it. Sorry, I don’t know what time it was.”
“How about Ellie? When did she leave?”
“For crying out loud, Goldy! She’s our friend! Why do you want to know all this?”
“Just tell me!”
Marla expelled breath. “We saw an old friend, Elizabeth Harrington, at the shoe sale. You remember, the widow of Brian Harrington?”
“Right, Ellie told me she was with her.”
“Elizabeth lives near Ellie, so she offered to take her home. Around nine, I guess. Why does it matter?”
“Just something else I’m trying to figure out for Tom,” I said lightly, as Liz reappeared at the kitchen door.
Marla sighed at the appearance of Liz, rolled her eyes at me, and trounced out of the kitchen.
Four minutes later, I had thanked Liz for both her hard work and her offer to clean up by writing her another check, the second one I’d given her that day. I quickly explained that I was sure old Shane wasn’t going to cough up an extra gratuity. Even with all of Liz’s own problems, she actually laughed. I thanked her again and hugged her.
Four additional heavy, wet inches of snow had accumulated since we’d arrived. At the end of the driveway, I looked right and left to check for traffic—there wasn’t any—and glanced up into the Preserve. The curtain of flakes had thinned; maybe we were experiencing a mere flurry. Snow fell softly on millions of rows of perfectly frosted pines. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and made me feel a bit better. At least for a while.
“Julian Teller passed the second polygraph,” Steve Hulsey informed me in the lobby of the jail. His voice was a deep wheeze, like a snake with bronchitis. This day, he was wearing an impeccable dark beige silk suit. “But he still will be formally charged—arraigned—on Friday morning.” He loomed over me. “Second-degree murder, a heat-of-passion crime.”
“What are you talking about?” Denial rose in my throat like a scream. The sergeant on duty, a pudgy woman with a face like a raisin cookie, watched our interchange with, I imagined, one finger on the button you use to summon officers into the lobby. But I couldn’t help myself. “There’s more to Barry’s murder than you think!” I snapped.
Hulsey held up a hand, his face as cold and impassive as a stone statue’s. I flinched. “Calm down,” he commanded. “They’re telling me you’re not a suspect anymore. So I’m taking over on this case now. Please listen calmly while I tell you what’s going to happen.”
I bit back another protest, crossed my arms, and glared at the gleaming white tiles on the lobby wall. Couldn’t they have made this place look a bit less like a bathroom?
“They’re still developing evidence in the case,” Hulsey told me, his voice back to the bronchilian reptile. “And the county attorney’s office and the detectives are going over that videotape from the party in the shoppers’ lounge with a microscope. Julian is on it, having not one but two heated arguments with the victim. And let’s not forget, the store security guard found Mr. Teller with his hand on the murder weapon. Friday, ten in the morning, is the time of the arraignment.”
I nodded. I’d been to one of The Jerk’s arraignments. There I hadn’t heard justice being served; I’d heard a dispassionate declaration of war between the prosecution and the defense.
“With se
cond-degree murder, they’ll probably let Julian out,” Hulsey said, a bit more gently, but with a peek at his watch. “For a price, of course. Mrs. Korman is seeing about bail.”
“Mrs. Korman?” I said. Of course: Marla. I blinked and tried to focus. The lawyer’s voice seemed far away.
“Marla Korman.” Hulsey could not disguise his impatience. “Your friend, the other ex-wife of Dr. John Richard Korman? You’re probably looking at bail of a million dollars. Bond’ll be a hundred thousand.” I nodded blankly. A hundred thousand dollars. “One more thing,” Hulsey added briskly. “Since you’re not a suspect anymore, you can visit Julian. That’s it, then. I need to go.” He handed me another one of his cards (I was accumulating quite a collection), grasped his briefcase, and sailed out the doors.
I watched Hulsey make a determined tramp through the snow to his Jag. OK, Julian was going to be arraigned. I shook my head. Our wonderful friend was suffocating behind bars. No matter what it cost, we had to get him out on bail.
I signed in to see Julian and was sent to the same phone-containing cubicle as before. What was I going to say to him that could possibly cheer him up? You could be out on bail pretty soon? Like Hulsey, I snuck a peek at my watch: almost half past two. Would Julian feel hurt when I said I could only stay for thirty minutes? Tears stung my eyes when he strolled through the door. I cemented a smile in place and sternly ordered myself to buck up. I couldn’t help him if I was slobbering.
“Hey, Goldy!” Julian sang into the phone. His face was even thinner and more haggard than before. But either he was doing a great acting job or his spirits had taken a turn for the better. “Didn’t expect you here!” He pulled a torn piece of paper from his pocket and leaned forward in his chair. “Sorry if you had to wait. My lawyer just left—”
“Yeah, I heard about it—”
“And then I called Arch on his lunch hour—”
Julian’s face cracked in a broad smile. He glanced down at the sheet in his hand. “This paper is my lifeline! It has the numbers of everyone I know. Arch told me to call him on his cell at certain times. So we talk three or four times a day. At his lunch hour, between his classes, like that. It’s great. He told me you were taking him to the anatomy field trip. I did that at EPP. The smell of formaldehyde’s really gross, by the way. Prepare yourself.”
I thought of Julian’s adoptive parents in Utah. Had he called them yet? I doubted it. “Yes, but—”
“And then you’ll never guess whose message I just answered!” His tone was beyond bubbly; it was feverish. No talk of the arraignment. No talk of the future. I swallowed and remembered my admonition to the parents of my Sunday school kids: Sometimes they just need you to listen.
“Kim Fury!” Julian exclaimed. I tried not to look surprised as he continued: “Kim was a classmate of mine at EPP. We got to know each other pretty well, since we were both science kids among all the rich brats. Kim’s really smart. Finished her B.S. in three years. Now she’s doing graduate work at C.U. in computer science. Anyway, Kim is really pissed off with her brother for running away with her mom’s credit cards.”
I tried to look as if I understood where all this was going. But I was worried. Julian was beyond both bubbly and feverish. He was manic. How was I going to have a logical strategy-planning session with him?
“Anyway. Kim’s sure her brother Teddy had something to do with this Dean thing, and that’s why he skipped! But that’s not all. She says her mother will do anything to keep Teddy from facing the consequences of his actions. Like this one time, he swiped a purse that had some car keys in it, and when he tried to start the car it jumped forward because it was still in gear—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whose car? Ellie McNeely’s?”
“I don’t know,” he rushed on. “But I was thinking, maybe—”
It was time to interrupt. “Julian,” I said. “Please. Just take a deep breath, OK?”
Immediately the spark of hope in his eyes went out. I felt a pang of guilt.
“Sorry!” I said hastily. “But I need to take notes if I’m going to get all this down. Do you know what kind of car it was?” I dug into my purse for an index card and pencil.
“I don’t know that either.” His voice was barely audible.
“Did Kim have anything concrete to share about Teddy and Barry Dean? Something that might help us?”
“No.”
“Well, give me her number, will you?” I scribbled the number he recited.
Julian looked up at the ceiling. “I passed the second lie detector test. Here’s what’s funny—it didn’t matter. I had a wicked headache from caffeine withdrawal, so I’ve drunk about eight cups of jail coffee since the test. Stuff tastes like motor oil.”
“We’re going to get you out of here—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, right, sure.” He still wouldn’t look at me. “Sorry to be so jazzed up. Listen, I still don’t want my folks to know about this yet. I’ll call down to Bluff when I’m ready, I promise.” He straightened. “The formal charge on Friday will be second-degree murder. You probably heard. It’s different, somehow, from that advisement on Tuesday. It all feels out of control.” He shook his head. Again the sight of his thin face and unkempt hair felt like a blade in my heart. “I … I feel so bad about the bail money,” he went on. “I feel so bad about everything. Seeing that knife in Mr. Dean was like noticing an electrical wire down on a wet road. You know you’re not supposed to touch it. But your only thought is that you want to help, and then as soon as you touch it, you’re either dead, in the case of the wire, or screwed, in the case of the knife—”
I leaned forward and urged, “Julian. Don’t do this to yourself. As you said, all you tried to do was help, and that was the right thing to do. You are innocent of this crime. And we’re going to prove it.” I managed what I hoped was a courageous smile. “I promise to ask Tom to look into Kim Fury’s allegation about her brother.” And to look into my own questions about the whereabouts of Ellie McNeely and Page Stockham from quarter to nine to nine, and why Page had ended up buying so many of a certain kind of shoe, I added silently.
Julian rubbed his forehead. “I don’t really want Teddy to get into trouble.” He was suddenly restless. “Look, thanks for coming. Have fun at Arch’s field trip.” Then he hung up and walked away. He didn’t look back.
Snow fell steadily as I drove up to Elk Park Prep. My muscles ached and my stomach growled. I had had nothing to eat except a reheated chocolate croissant (one of Julian’s creations from the freezer) and double espresso. My mind jumped around: Page Stockham and her shoes. Liz Fury fretting over her troubled (and missing) son. Julian, alone in jail.
First things first. I punched in the phone number Julian had given me for Kim Fury in Boulder. No answer. I left a message identifying myself and asking her to call. Then I tried Tom, who was off somewhere, and brought him up to speed on the shoes I’d found heaped in Page’s closet. Had the cops checked the alibis of these two women, Page Stockham and Ellie McNeely, for the time of Barry’s murder? Finally, there was Kim Fury’s report of her brother stealing a car. Was he aware of any of this? I wanted to know. Had Teddy been a suspect in the theft of Ellie’s car? And finally, had the cops found anything at the Elk Park Prep portable toilet?
At quarter to four, I pulled off the interstate at the Aspen Meadow exit. I had to pick up my own son plus four other boys, drive back down the mountain, and endure an anatomy class. I was going to pass out if I didn’t have something to eat.
To my surprise, there was no line at our little burg’s drive-through espresso place. Through the thickening swirl of snowflakes, I ordered a hot croissant ham-and-Swiss sandwich for myself, plus six biscotti and six large hot chocolates. Yes, extra-hot for the cocoa, and yes, with whipped cream. Extra whipped cream. I accepted the treats gratefully. Times of trauma, I reflected as I bit into the delicious sandwich—flaky pastry surrounding hot, thinly sliced Danish ham, just-melted Jarlsberg, and a hint of Dijon mustard—demand c
omfort food. I gunned the van toward Arch’s school, secure in the knowledge that when I’d finished wolfing down the sandwich, I had a cup of steaming, cream-topped cocoa waiting. Is there any better comfort food than chocolate? I think not.
Outside the Upper School, I pulled the van behind a line of Mercedes, Jags, Audis, four-wheel-drive Lexuses, and late-model BMW’s. In the prep school big-spender environment, I knew that my van, with its emblazoned logo Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! gave Arch no end of anguish. The parents who did not know my son attended EPP undoubtedly thought I was there to serve gourmet hot dogs, maybe at that day’s volleyball game.
Arch and a group of boys, their jackets unzipped and their wool hats askew, tumbled out of the school doors. Steam issued from their mouths as they hollered and flung quickly scooped snowballs at each other. To avoid enemy missiles, they ran and slid expertly across the snowy ice. Seeing them free and happy made me think of Julian, trapped in jail. I shuddered.
“Please say you brought us something to eat!” Arch exclaimed as he and his pals heaved their Sherpa-worthy backpacks into the van’s rear. “We’re starving! And freezing!”
“Hot chocolate and biscotti!” I called and received a deafening but grateful chorus of Oh, yeah!
“Mom, thanks,” Arch murmured uncharacteristically, as he balanced his treat and surreptitiously leaned forward from the backseat, so his friends couldn’t hear. Well, maybe my request for a little courtesy had hit its mark. That was two nice things he’d said to me in twenty-four hours. I glowed.
“This is how a cadaver’s bone breaks,” called one of the boys, as he snapped his biscotto in two.
“Oh, yeah?” my son replied. “This cocoa? It’s the color of the inside of the liver.”
I placed my hot chocolate firmly in the cup holder and turned my attention to the road.
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