“It’s good to have backup,” Sally said, thinking of Hawk in the other room, working over the lab exercises.
“It’s life and death sometimes, Dr. Alder,” said Stone, opening his case and putting his guitar away. “We’ll run through those once or twice tomorrow sometime, then again at the sound check Friday morning. I think we’ll be good.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” she said.
“Don’t thank me. It ain’t over until we do it the hard way, one last time,” he answered, taking his leave.
She went into the kitchen. Hawk looked up from his papers, eyes luminous, shaking his head.
“That,” he said, “was the most amazing live musical performance I have ever heard. You sounded beautiful. That man sings like heaven on earth. Thank you for letting me listen in.”
“Thank you for loving me,” she said, wrapping her arms around him, kissing him very gently, and smiling. “There are several ways I would like to express my appreciation. Would you come to bed with me now?”
Maybe Thomas Jackson had left some of his magic in the house. Or maybe they were making their own, out of the ache and wonder of living on the planet, of bad and good fortune, of still having the capacity for amazement. Eventually they dozed off, nested like spoons, and slept peacefully and deep, waking in the brilliant sunlight of Thanksgiving morning.
It’ll happen today, Sally thought as she laced up her running shoes. She knew it. They’d get the killer today.
“Hey, there,” said Hawk. “What are you doing?”
“Putting on my shoes,” she answered genially.
“Maybe I’ll come along,” he said.
She cocked her head and gave him a look. “You know how you feel about running. You say you can’t understand why anybody would do it without a ball being somehow involved.”
“I play basketball. Sometimes you have to run without the ball,” he said.
“True. But then you have to anticipate what the other guys are going to do. Even when you’re a team player, it’s more fun to have the ball,” she said.
“Okay. So today I’m all about the team. You can entertain me.”
Laramie was holiday quiet, traffic nearly nonexistent. She knew Hawk could run a lot faster than she could, if he chose. But he loped along companionably, discussing everything from the latest political comedy in California to Wyoming basketball (the Lady Pokes’ chances looked pretty good). Everything, that is, except the main thing on their minds. She noticed he’d stuck the cell phone in the back pocket of his shorts, prepared for an emergency. At least he’d left the Smith and Wesson at home.
“I’ve got a feeling,” she said at last. “They’re going to catch the murderer today, Hawk.”
“I think so, too,” he said. “So why don’t you relax and let Dickie and Scotty do their jobs, and you can help out Pammie, eat some great grub, and rub shoulders with the rich and famous?”
“My plan, exactly.” She nodded for emphasis, and fell silent for half a block. “But I’ve been thinking,” she began again, “about the question of what I know about Nina’s life and death, and why somebody is so scared that I know it, that they’d try to kill me.”
“I admit,” said Hawk, “that I’ve wondered about those things myself.”
“I keep going back to two things: the note I found in Nina’s office, and the can of protein powder.”
“What about that day of research out at Shady Grove? And what about all the interviews and conversations you’ve had?”
They were heading north now, slightly uphill. She huffed and puffed and thought awhile. “It’s possible somebody might think I found something in Nina’s papers, but they’d have no way of knowing what I’d looked at. Sure, there might be something there that would expose the murderer. But I didn’t find it. The tough part about being a historian is that you usually have to noodle around in stuff for quite a while before you either happen across what you’re looking for, or realize that something you’ve already seen matters.”
“But the Halloween prank—” Hawk began, as they turned to loop around LaBonte Park.
“Suggests that whoever pulled it wanted to scare me away from digging further.”
“Wouldn’t they be better off with you poking around in Nina’s stuff than, say, Scotty Atkins and his crew?”
Their feet slapped on the dirt track worn in the park grass. “Maybe. Scotty has more resources and a good enough brain. I just don’t think the papers are the issue. And as for the interviews,” she said, “any one of these people could be afraid of what somebody else might have said to me. But what I’ve learned doing oral histories over the years is that they generally consist of stories the interviewees feel like telling. People very rarely blab out things they don’t want known. I need to assume that the people I’ve talked to told me exactly what they wanted me to hear. Consider old Randy Whitebird, for instance. The guy’s made a career out of manipulating information to his advantage.”
“There’s no reason to think that the others wouldn’t at least try to do the same,” Hawk agreed.
“So, let’s focus on the note and the powder,” Sally said. “The only person who saw me with the note was Lark. Unless she wrote it, she probably wouldn’t have known what it was. But she might have told somebody that I’d picked up a piece of paper in Nina’s office. And the most likely somebody, from what I’ve seen, is Kali.”
“Although at that point, from what you’ve told me, everybody out at Shady Grove was in shock. You were an outsider. She was one of a bunch of insiders. Lark might have told anybody. And it sounds like Nels Willen was pretty much holding things together out there,” Hawk observed.
“Even though Whitebird made a point of saying he was in charge,” Sally said. “Now about that powder. If that was the source of the prions in Nina’s brain, she’d have had to have been taking it for a long time. Whoever was giving it to her must have known her awhile.” Sally made a list: “Cat. Stone. Willen. Kali. I don’t know for sure how long she’s known Whitebird or Lark.”
“Who knew you had a can of the stuff?” Hawk asked.
“Pammie gave it to me. Quartz was there. But they might have told anybody I’d taken it. I admit, poisoned powder doesn’t seem like Cat’s style. And I have a very hard time imagining Stone saying to Nina, ‘Try this fabulous new health food product,’ while he’s snorting up lines and chasing them with Chivas.”
“What about after he cleaned up his act?” Hawk asked.
“Still seems like a remote possibility. By that time, she was involved with Willen, and then with Kali, and with God knows who else. And we have to consider the possibility that the powder wasn’t the source of Nina’s disease. There was that Swiss doctor, force-feeding her organ meats after that skiing accident way back when.”
“Have you asked Stone about that?” Hawk inquired, as they took the final turn around the park and headed back home.
Sally searched her memory. “Actually, no. The only source I have for that information is Nels Willen.”
“The same Nels Willen who brought the rifle to Shady Grove. The same guy who may well have ended his medical career with an intentional act of malpractice.”
“Which brings me back to that powder. Seems pretty clear. Somebody knew what was wrong with it, and also knew I had a can. Somebody who wanted to kill Nina Cruz slowly, but then decided to use bullets instead, on both Nina and Jimbo Perrine. Somebody who claims to hold life sacred, but doesn’t, in the end, have much regard for human beings. Very scary disconnect.”
“Now you see what it’s like, running without the ball,” said Hawk.
Chapter 28
Turkey, Tofu, and Bull Balls
Pammie Montgomery’s kitchen was pure madness.
The first person Sally spotted was Randy Whitebird, wearing a white chef’s jacket and yelling into a cell phone. “T.K.? What was that? Seven of the crew are what?” He listened a moment, said “Hold on,” and yelled, “Seven of the roadies are on the Atkins diet, an
d two of the people from the lighting company are hi carb. So some of ’em want a steak, and the others are requesting pasta or rice. We’ve also got three on the crew who are lactose-intolerant, and a sound guy who keeps kosher.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Cat Cruz hollered from the sink, where she appeared to be hosing down a large object in the sink. “Kosher? Like there’s any kosher food in the entire state of Wyoming.”
“Pickles?” Sally ventured. “You can always find pickles.”
“I can’t fucking believe it!” exclaimed Pammie Montgomery, picking up a large pale, roundish object from a long steel table and dropping it back on the table with a clang. “These fucking turkeys are frozen solid! How the hell am I supposed to be able to cook them by tonight? The fucking supplier promised fresh organic turkeys!”
Sally walked over to the table. Five turkeys, wrapped in plastic and plainly labeled fresh and organic, sat stonily side by side. She pushed a finger into the surface of one, and found it frigid and unyielding. “Maybe these are extra-virgin turkeys,” she said.
“Why don’t you just send somebody down to the Lifeway and pick up a few turkeys? They always keep some around for Thanksgiving cooks who don’t plan ahead. Hell, you could probably get the whole dinner with all the trimmings, precooked and packed to go,” said Hawk.
“But they won’t be organic!” Pammie screamed. “How do I explain that?”
“You don’t,” said Hawk. “You fake it. Don’t tell anybody. Maybe extend cocktail hour for good measure. A few extra tequilas and they won’t know an organic turkey from a turkey buzzard.”
“I like this guy,” said Cat, grinning at Hawk, who beamed back. “Quartz, go on down to the supermarket and pick up five turkeys. We don’t care if they’re hooked on crack, as long as they’re thawed. If they don’t have ’em, see if they’ll sell you a bunch of turkey dinners. If you don’t want to serve up the mashed potatoes and dinner rolls, Pammie, you can skip the extras.”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Cat. You’d be surprised how many people can tell the difference between the real thing and the birds that have been shot up with a million hormones and then pumped so full of grease so they practically slide off the shelf,” said Quartz, wrinkling up his nose.
“We don’t have a choice. I’m not going to spend the next two hours giving these stupid birds warm baths and hoping they come around,” Pammie decided. “And if the ones they have at the Lifeway happen to be self-basting, that’s okay with me. That is, if I can remember to check when the little timer thing pops up. I always forget, and then they cook themselves to charcoal. Be a love, Quartz, and go get them.”
“I really don’t think I should leave, sweetheart. I’ve got focaccias and ciabattas—”
“I can deal with your dough, son,” said Nels Willen, a chef’s hat atop his braids and a white jacket hanging off his skinny frame. “Go get the lady’s turkeys.”
“How are those potatoes coming over there?” Pammie yelled to a girl at another sink, peeling potatoes out of a huge sack.
“I think these actually are organic,” came the reply. “Half of them are rotten.”
“That’s a good sign,” Lark offered from a counter where she was slicing up cabbages. “They haven’t been sprayed or inoculated with preservatives.”
“Jesus, preserve my sanity,” said Pammie. “Are you going or what, Quartz?”
Grudgingly, the young man shucked off his white jacket, pulled on a coat, and said he’d be back as soon as possible.
Things only got crazier from there. Pammie gave Sally and Hawk white jackets to wear (“I want my kitchen staff to look professional”) and put Hawk in charge of hauling boxes of things out of and back into the walk-in refrigerator. Sally was put to work chopping onions and garlic, chiles and ginger, for a sweet and hot deep-fried tofu noodle dish sure to please the palate of the most discriminating vegan. Kali stood tending the fryer, transforming cubes of bean curd from bland little chunks of health into crispy morsels of deep-fat goodness. “How do you feel about that?” Sally asked as she brushed off her garlicky hands and delivered a bowlful of chopped stuff to Pammie, who was creating the sauce.
“About frying up what would otherwise be perfectly good food?” Kali shrugged, sending her earrings into a little snaky dance. “I wouldn’t touch the stuff if you paid me. But at least it started out life as a bean,” she said, and sighed heavily. She looked tiny and vulnerable, despite the dangling reptiles framing her pixie face. “I guess you do what you have to do.”
“I’m really sorry I haven’t gotten a chance to hear your story yet,” said Sally. “I hope you’ll have time for me soon.”
“I doubt it,” said Kali. “Cat has made it clear I’m not welcome here, and as you’re probably aware, I have other things to deal with.” She dipped a strainer into bubbling oil and lifted out golden morsels of tofu.
Sally selected an onion, began chopping, and took a chance. “So it wasn’t just coincidence that your company was working on a cure for spongiform encephalopathy?” she asked.
Kali glanced up from the fryer, her expression pained. “No. Of course not. Nina had begun exhibiting symptoms several years ago.”
“But the kinds of symptoms she evidently had could have been lots of things. Why would you suspect mad cow disease?” Sally asked.
“If you knew anything about the death trade in animals,” Kali told her, “you wouldn’t have to ask that question. Nina had been a carnivore for much of her life. I myself grew up eating flesh, and not just supermarket stuff—my dad used to take me hunting every fall. Everyone who uses animals for food is at far greater risk than they know,” she finished.
Hunting every fall? Kali, Willen, who else? How many of these animal rights people had come by their politics after they’d taken their finger off the trigger?
As for the dangers of meat eating, sure, there were reasons to tread lightly at the top of the food chain, but Sally was pretty sure Kali was overstating the case. Even if the fried tofu was looking better than it had a moment ago. “So once you started to have suspicions about what was wrong with Nina, you went to work on a cure?” she asked.
Kali searched Sally’s eyes. “If the person you loved most was facing death, wouldn’t you do all you could to save her? I’m a biomedical researcher. Nina was desperate. She knew I’d give it everything I had, and I did. She supported the work. We were close, very close, to a breakthrough. Then somebody killed her.”
“Why?” Sally asked her. “Who do you think could have done such a thing?”
“I couldn’t say,” Kali replied, returning her attention to the fryer. “But I comfort myself with the knowledge that at least she never knew I’d failed.”
Sally was struggling to come up with a subtle way to ask Kali about the protein powder, but she never got a chance. “Hey there, honey child,” hollered Delice Langham, coming in the door, and toting a turkey in a plastic mesh bag in each hand. “I ran into the lad here at the market,” she said, tossing her head back at Quartz, who had followed her in with three more big birds. “John-Boy had run out of Jimmy Dean sausage for his stuffed mushrooms.”
“What are you doing here, Dee?” asked Sally, looking around for Kali and cursing her missed opportunity.
“I figured if you were reduced to running to the supermarket for industrial-grade turkeys, you could probably use a hand,” said Delice. “When we dropped off the sausage, it was clear that John-Boy’s got things under control at the café, and Thanksgiving at the Wrangler’s just business as usual. Besides, I’m not about to miss out on Emmylou.”
Hawk emerged from the cooler with a large, heavy cardboard box. “Hey, Pammie!” he said. “What were you planning to do with these oysters?”
“I figured I’d serve ’em raw, on the half shell. Lemon and fresh horseradish and cocktail sauce on the side. That ought to at least satisfy the Atkins diet roadies, huh?”
Hawk put the box down and gave it a dubious glance. “I don’
t know about raw. And they don’t have shells. Don’t know who your supplier is on this one, but they sent Rocky Mountain oysters.”
Sally gave a hoot. “Bull balls! Perfect! Those roadies will be throwing amps through the windows by the time it’s all over.”
Cat collapsed in hysterics. Even Nels Willen was giggling. Pammie, meanwhile, had fallen onto a stool and pulled her chef’s jacket over her head.
“Don’t sweat it, honey,” said Delice. “Somebody give me a cell phone. Sam Arnold down at the Fort in Denver sells like a million of these babies a year to people who pay a week’s wages for a buffalo steak. Don’t know exactly what he does with bull balls, but evidently it’s incredible. I’ll find out. Then you’ll all have to try a taste.”
Nearly everyone laughed. Kali and Lark paled and left the room. “Just kidding!” Delice hollered after them, moving to the fryer to take up Kali’s abandoned position. “What’s in here?” she asked, shaking the fryer basket.
“Tofu,” Sally said.
“Eww. Gross,” said Delice, never one to pass up a cheap shot.
“That was really mean,” Quartz told Delice. “I’m going to see if they’re all right.” He scurried out after the two women.
“He’s a doll,” Sally told Pammie.
“Yeah, he is. I think he’s going to move back to Oregon after this, though,” Pammie said, tasting her sweet and hot sauce, nodding, then taking it off the heat and moving to another pan.
“That’s a drag,” said Sally.
“Yeah. Maybe. I’ve been thinking about ditching UW and going out there to go to culinary school. And John-Boy knows chefs in both Portland and Eugene. He said he’s sure I could get on at a great restaurant.”
Love. It could change your life.
As the afternoon wore on, the atmosphere grew more and more hectic. But dish by dish, the Thanksgiving feast began to take shape. Pammie’s menu, posted on the wall, was staggering: polenta tortas and pumpkin flans and curried vegetable stews; brussels sprouts with brown butter and almonds; wild mushroom ragouts and winter-squash risotto; Chinese tofu and fresh cabbage confetti slaw. Garlic mashed potatoes, sweet potato gratin, bread stuffing with apricots and golden raisins, cranberries five or ten ways, pies and pies and pies. No steak, unfortunately, for the Atkins enthusiasts, but the aroma of roasting turkey perfumed the air.
Bye, Bye, Love Page 28