And the kitchen grew ever hotter, noisier, more crowded. As the production crews at the stadium finished with their setups and sound checks and light checks, hungry roadies and techies and security people wandered in looking for snacks. The local police had accepted the invitation in droves, a notoriously ravenous bunch. Pammie had to get someone to find Dickie Langham to get them out of her way. For his part, Quartz seemed to have appointed himself kitchen cop, and he chased out visitors with an aggressiveness that surprised Sally.
All the while, Sally smashed and skinned and chopped what seemed to her a nearly endless pile of garlic cloves. As her hands began to sweat garlic fumes, she asked Quartz, “Is there any reason this couldn’t be done mostly in a food processor?”
“Pammie likes it done by hand,” he said simply. “Would you rather do more chiles?” And then he moved over to chase off an electrician who’d sidled up to a counter and was helping himself to a piece of pecan pie.
Stone Jackson, in his role as chief talent and co-producer, had been supervising the technical run-through, and he showed up with Terry Kean, the concert promoter. They seemed preoccupied, but confident. Pammie offered to fix them a snack, but they allowed as how they’d stopped off at the Wrangler for eggs and bacon. “That’s some good grease they got there,” said T.K.
Delice stepped forward, beaming, to introduce herself to them and explain precisely how much pride she took in her grease.
Sally interrupted Delice. “Stone, could I ask you something?” she said, putting down her knife and wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Sure,” he answered. “It’s pretty noisy in here. Let’s go outside.”
Sounded like a good idea. Sally finished up, washed her hands, rubbed them with lemon. Then mint. Then parsley. Then lemon again. No good. Garlic. No wonder it worked on vampires. It was immortal, too. She’d have to make sure Hawk ate a lot of those mashed potatoes.
As she walked out the door, the cold air hit her like a blessing, and she realized just how hot it was in the kitchen. “This is going to seem like a strange question,” she told Jackson, “but I want to ask you about the time Nina tore up her knee, skiing in Switzerland.”
“That was pretty terrible,” said Stone. “I wasn’t a whole lot of help, I’m sorry to say. I was barely aware of what was going on with her. I mean, I was such a mess, I even tried to hustle her doctors for drugs.”
“Did they give them to you?” she asked.
“To their credit, no,” he said. “One guy tried to get me into detox, but I wasn’t having any of that. Another one suggested a diet of organ meats to replenish lost brain cells.” Stone smiled. “Might’ve helped. At least it would have been solid food, something I wasn’t seeing much of at the time.”
So Willen’s story about the Swiss doctor checked out. “You know, Thomas, Nels Willen thinks that Nina got mad cow from the diet that doctor put her on,” she told him.
Stone nodded. “He told me as much. And he’s still beating himself up about it. But what could Nels do? By the time he got there, the guy had been treating her for two weeks. And who knew anything about mad cow disease at that time? This is all twenty-twenty hindsight. Nels needs to let himself off the hook.”
The door opened, and Willen himself came out. “Hotter than heck in there,” he said, taking off his chef’s cap, pulling a bandana from the back pocket of his jeans, and wiping his face.
“Hey, bro’,” said Stone, clapping Willen on the shoulder. “You doin’ okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine,” Willen said. “The chaos helps. By the way, Thomas, Terry Kean’s looking for you.”
“I gotta get back in there,” said Stone. “Be excellent unto yourselves.” He opened the door to the kitchen and disappeared inside.
“Nina would have loved this,” Willen observed quietly. “She liked a big crazy scene like this as much as she liked being all by herself in a beautiful silent place. She loved being alive.”
“You miss her a lot, don’t you?” Sally said.
“Yeah,” he answered. “But I’ll get by. And whatever happens to the Wild West, I’ve got the means to carry on the work we both cared about. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve had to deal with tragedy. I’m worried about some of the others.”
She looked up at him. “Stone’s really been through it,” she said.
He nodded. “So has Cat, although she tries not to show it. Likes people to think she eats nails for breakfast, but she wouldn’t spend all that time in refugee camps if she didn’t give a damn.”
“I think Mr. Whitebird will survive,” Sally said.
Willen gave a half smile. “That guy seems like the kind who could survive an atom bomb, and crawl out from under the rubble selling radiation as a cure for carbuncles.”
Sally laughed. “But he loved her, too. At least he was sincere in that.” She thought a moment. “And what about Kali?”
Willen shook his head. “She’s devastated. I mean, we all loved Angelina, but most of us understood that she was a woman no one person could hold. Kali, well, she never gave up hoping. Poor thing’s like to die of a broken heart. But then, I’ve known her a few years now, and she’s never been what you’d call a ray of sunshine, exactly. Think she wears all that white ’cause the darkness comes in pretty close to where she lives.”
Sally’s vision hazed over in red.
Hawk burst out the door. “What the hell are you doing out here alone with him?” he said.
“Oh, come on now, Green. I like your woman a lot, but she’s too young for the likes of me,” said Nels.
“For God’s sake, Hawk!” she said. “He’s no danger to me. Listen—”
Hawk glared and grabbed her by the arm. “Come on in. Emmylou has entered the building.”
Back in the kitchen, the quiet was deafening. Pammie was giving a taste to a huge pan of rich brown gravy, adding a swirl of salt and giving the sauce a whisk, turning the burner down to low. The five turkeys, golden and gorgeous, were lined up on the counter, set to rest and gather their juices before they could be carved for the feast. Everyone else had apparently gone into the ballroom to gawk at the Queen of Country. “Let’s go meet Her Highness,” Pammie said, wiping her hands on the dish towel at her waist. “And then it’ll be showtime.”
“Where’s Kali?” Sally asked her. “I really have to find her.”
Pammie furrowed her brow. “Haven’t seen her in a few minutes. Probably out making her curtsy like the rest of us. Come on. Let’s have a minute of fun. Then we’ll do what we have to do.”
You do what you have to do. And if you live on the dark side, that could include anything. If you fashioned yourself into the goddess of death and destruction, the other half of the cycle of birth and creativity, you might have to do just about anything.
And if you knew that the person you loved almost more than life was dying of a horrible disease, you might devote your life to trying to find a cure. And when you failed, maybe you took life into your own hands.
“Hey, Pammie,” Sally said. “Did you happen to mention to anybody that I’d taken a can of Nina’s soy powder?”
Pammie thought a minute. “Yeah, actually I did. I was out at Shady Grove right before Halloween, picking up some kitchen stuff Cat was giving me. Kali showed up, said she’d left some things behind, and opened the cupboard where Nina kept her stash of the supplement. Kali sat there a minute, and then said she thought there must be one can missing. I told her you’d taken it. Did I get you in trouble?”
“No,” Sally lied. “Thanks.”
Pammie nodded. “It’s time to go curtsy to the Queen,” she said, heading for the ballroom.
So now Sally knew. Kelly Lee Brisbane, zealot, acolyte, scientist, searcher after magic bullets, was capable of loving someone to death.
The party was in full swing, and dotted with celebrities. Sally passed a group clustered around Graham and David, telling stories about previous charity gigs. But it was easy to locate Emmylou by the cro
wd gathered in one corner. Sally caught a glimpse of abundant silver hair and a flashing smile as the white-jacketed Pammie made through the throng for her introduction. She saw Emmylou hug the chef.
“Maybe I can get a hug,” Hawk said. “I’m not usually pushy in crowds, but I could make an exception.”
“Later,” said Sally. “Right now, we’ve got to find Kali. She’s the one, Hawk. She killed Nina and Jimbo. I’ll explain later, but I’ve got it figured. Have you seen Dickie or Scotty?”
“Not in the last few minutes.” He scanned the crowd. “Don’t see Kali either. She’s kind of small to spot,” he said.
“But she ought to be easy to find. She always wears all white,” Sally said.
Hawk looked down at himself, and then at her, in their chef’s jackets. “That’s not going to be a lot of help in here today.”
“Maybe she’s back in the kitchen,” Sally said. “I’ll go take a look.”
“No, you don’t,” said Hawk. “Let’s go find Dickie or Atkins first. The woman’s already shot two people, you say, and you’re going after her?”
Sally took a breath. He was right. How stupid could she be?
Dickie Langham turned out to be right where she should have expected. She could see his Stetson hat sticking above the crowd, right next to Emmylou, Stone Jackson, and, of course, Delice. Sally shoved through the people, Hawk in her wake, and found Dickie telling a law enforcement joke Emmylou was apparently enjoying.
She didn’t even stop to introduce herself. “I’m really sorry,” she told Emmylou, “but could I borrow the sheriff here for a minute?”
“I’ll look forward to resuming our conversation, Sheriff,” Emmylou said graciously, as Dickie tipped his hat and Delice moved between Emmylou and Stone, hooking her arms through theirs and launching into a joke about cowboys and chewing tobacco.
Sally dragged Dickie into the kitchen. Most of the help had drifted back in to do the final preparation for dinner. Kali was nowhere to be seen.
“You’ve gotta find Kali, Dick,” Sally told him.
He frowned and said, “Okay.”
Pammie, meanwhile, was in a state. “Sally Alder!” she yelled. “You were the one chopping garlic. Did you put a bunch of fucking garlic in my gravy?”
Sally looked at her in puzzlement. “No. I didn’t touch your gravy,” she said.
“It’s ruined!” Pammie wailed. “Somebody came in here and dumped garlic in my perfect gravy! Smell this!” She waved a hand over the gravy pan, wafting fumes Sally’s way.
Sally walked toward the stove, but she didn’t really need to get close. The whole kitchen reeked of garlic. “Wow,” she said. “That’s pretty strong.”
“I can only imagine how it tastes,” said Pammie, her chef’s curiosity leading her to pick up a spoon, dip it into the gravy, put her other hand under the spoon to catch drips, and raise it toward her lips.
“Don’t! Don’t touch that stuff! Do not taste that gravy!”
Quartz’s voice. Coming from the doorway between the kitchen and the ballroom. “I mean it, Pammie. You’re right, somebody’s been at your gravy, but that’s not garlic you’re smelling. It’s poison!”
“Arsenic,” said Dr. Nels Willen. “Smells like garlic when it’s heated.”
Pammie paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, staring at Quartz. Everyone followed her gaze.
And there stood Quartz, pressing a large pistol to the neck of the woman who called herself Kali.
Cat Cruz, standing next to Pammie, grabbed the spoon and hurled it against the wall, just as Scotty Atkins burst in, gun drawn. Dickie grabbed Kali by the arms and held her while Scotty cuffed her hands behind her back and began to recite the Miranda warning.
“Quartz?” Pammie said, her face the picture of puzzlement. “What’s going on? What’s with the gun? Where are they taking Kali?”
“She’s under arrest for murder,” he said shortly, in a far less mellow tone voice than Sally had ever heard him use.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Dickie, “we’d like to ask you to remain where you are, while we secure the premises. Much as it pains me to say this, we ask that nobody touch any of the food. We’ll be conducting brief interviews and gathering evidence. When we’re done with you, you’ll all be free to go about your business.”
“What about the feast?” Pammie said.
“I’m sorry. Nobody’s to touch a thing. We have reason to suspect that this food has been subjected to malicious tampering. It would be very stupid to think about eating it,” Dickie answered.
“What about the stuff people have already eaten?” Cat asked, alarm blooming on her face.
“We’re suggesting that everyone stay here. A medical team will arrive shortly to check people out and offer advice.”
“About what?” Sally asked.
“Symptoms of poisoning,” Scotty said.
Everyone froze.
“I can start checking people right now,” said Dr. Nels Willen, breaking the collective paralysis. And then he addressed Kali. “Why? Why would you do this?”
Her eyes were bright, but strangely unfocused. Her voice, usually nearly inaudible, rang out. “Great causes demand great sacrifices, Nels,” she said. “Nina was willing. She knew we’d never be able to convince the public that animal rights mattered until there was a human martyr to the cause, somebody to put a famous face on it. A Rock Hudson or an Arthur Ashe. Why not Nina Cruz?”
“And you made sure she’d be a martyr, didn’t you?” Sally put in. “With that little protein supplement you kept supplying her. She didn’t even know you were poisoning her, did she, Kali? She thought you were trying to find a cure.”
“I was!” Kali protested. “I tried! Madicin had incredible potential. Nina knew that. The supplement should have worked!”
“The supplement?” Sally said. “It was full of prions. You were giving her medicine that had as much potential to kill her as to cure her?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Nels Willen, “how common a pharmacological strategy that is.”
“You used my sister as a guinea pig!” Cat had pushed through the crowd. “What did she do, Kelly Lee? When she realized that you’d failed, did she tell you she was selling out of BIOS? Cutting you out of her will? That’d be like Nina. Noble intentions and a quick exit. But you couldn’t let that happen, could you?”
“She was doomed anyway, Cat. She was willing to offer her life to a higher purpose. My work had to go on.”
“Your work! You shot at me!” Sally said. “And you killed Jimbo Perrine. Who doesn’t count as a sacrificial lamb, when it comes to your work?”
“I didn’t know what you might find in Nina’s stuff. And then, of course, you had the protein powder. I had to act.” Kali looked around, eyes on fire. “I’m just sorry,” she said, “that all of you who came to honor Nina Cruz by eating slaughtered animals won’t have the honor of following her to the other side.”
“That’s enough.” Dickie turned to Scotty. “Take her away,” he said, gesturing at Kali. “I’ll be out there in a minute.” Then he turned back to the people gaping at him from around the kitchen. “We’re sorry. We appreciate your help, folks. I’ll be back in a little while. In the meantime, would you all please cooperate with the investigating officer?”
They all looked at one another.
Quartz hitched up the hem of his chef’s jacket, stuck the gun in his belt, and pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open, revealing an identification card and a shiny badge. “Agent Quentin Schwartz,” he said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Chapter 29
Snowing. Again.
After the Thanksgiving dinner that never was, the benefit concert was almost an anticlimax. For one thing, once the dinner guests learned that every morsel of the feast Pammie Montgomery had conjured up was to be disposed of as hazardous waste, they had to do something about dinner. Delice invited everyone down to the Wrangler. (“It won’t be fancy, but to our knowledge
we haven’t killed anybody yet. At least not directly. At least not in the restaurant.”) And just about everyone went. By the end of the evening, the cast and crew of the Night for Nina were so excited and satisfied, they hauled out their instruments for an impromptu jam. Those few lucky Laramie folk who happened into the Bar and Grill got a treat Sally would never in her craziest fantasies have imagined. Delice said she’d never, ever forget the sight of Emmylou sitting on one of her very own bar stools, crooning “I’ll Be Your San Antone Rose.”
Cat paid the bar tab and kept a close eye on Stone. He ate three cheeseburgers, but stuck to coffee.
And the next night went off without a hitch. No technical problems, no performers too loaded to perform, not even the usual flaming egos on display. Some people were a little freaked out by all the extra security people Cat had insisted on bringing in, but for Sally’s part, that was just fine. From Sally and Stone’s opening duet to the encore, with everyone on stage singing and crying their way through Bob Dylan’s “Farewell, Angelina,” everything went so well, Sally, perversely, was almost disappointed. The benefit made enough money to cover costs, without a penny to spare for the cause, of course. The annual blizzard even held off.
Until Saturday, when a fast-moving wall of snow slammed in from the West, shutting down the countryside from Salt Lake City to Omaha, from Flagstaff to Amarillo. Some of the out-of-towners, heading off in rental cars bound for Denver International Airport, in buses and semis and VW vans, had left right after the gig Friday night, trying to beat the coming storm. Those who had dallied were likely to be stranded somewhere on the road, or joining other Thanksgiving weekend travelers enjoying an extended stay in DIA.
Snowing. Again.
The world outside the house on Eighth Street was blanketed in white, the early afternoon light diffuse and dusky.
Bye, Bye, Love Page 29