Catering to Nobody (Goldy Schulz Series) gs-1

by Diane Mott Davidson

Our food arrived. Schulz astonished me by ladling enormous amounts onto my plate. Then, muttering something that sounded like “wimps,” he waved away the chopsticks proffered by the waiter. He nodded to me before attacking his trout. I smiled, remembering John Richard’s selfishness with food. If he ever did serve me first, it was always in small portions. Usually, though, he served himself large quantities and then passed me what was left while he started eating.

  I looked from my plate to Schulz’s.

  A look of worry crossed his face. “What’s the matter,” he said, “don’t you like it?”

  “It’s fine,” I said, attempting to get up some pork with chopsticks. “It’s great. Really.”

  He chuckled between mouthfuls. “I’ll bet you just cook so much you get tired of food, don’t you?”

  “Oh no,” I said. I speared the pork. “Honestly, I’m just preoccupied.”

  We ate in silence for a while, making occasional comments on the size and freshness of the fat shrimp, the perfect seasoning of the trout. Again I felt an odd—because unused—trust melting my resistance.

  After a while I said, “When I went to visit Fritz and Vonette today, I kind of looked around. I thought I might be able to figure out who their enemies were if I sort of went through their desk.”

  He washed down his bite with some tea and said, “You sort of went through their desk? When I said you could help, I didn’t say you could burgle the place, for God’s sake.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Well, listen up, copper,” I went on. “I’m going to go through some of Laura Smiley’s stuff, too.”

  “Christ.”

  “Look,” I said, “I appreciate your making long-distance calls to find people who have moved and files that are on microfilm.” I smiled. “You even got over your reluctance to bring me in on the case. But I need more if we’re going to go forward.” Then I asked, as much for myself as for him, “Why do you think I’m having dinner with you?”

  “Miss Goldy,” he said while pouring me some more tea, “excuse me. I thought we were here at least partially for social reasons.”

  “Dating a suspect? Is that legal?”

  He held the teapot in midair. My face was warm.

  He said, “Tell you what. Let me worry about what’s legal. I don’t go breaking into folks’ desks and stuff, for instance. But I wouldn’t have brought you in, as you call it, unless it was legal. I can share information with you about what the department is doing, if I think it’ll aid the investigation.”

  “So what you’re saying is that being with me is social and helpful.”

  He nodded. “Investigators can get information from any source within the law. Which does not include breaking and entering, I might add. It might include keeping closer tabs on your son, however.”

  I gave him an absolutely sour look.

  He finished a bite of pork and shook his head. “Just precautionary. Find out if he’s really nuts about these games. Most kids aren’t. But maybe there’s something he’s not telling me, or not telling you.” He thought. “There’re people involved in this who might talk more easily to you, is all.”

  “What kind of information do you expect to get from me?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t mean to offend you, Goldy, but you know how women talk—”

  “You’re offending me.”

  “Tell you what,” he said, “let me try to make it up to you by taking you out to dinner again.”

  “No, I don’t think so …”

  “The movies?”

  “No…”

  “Bronco game?”

  I hesitated.

  “They’re looking awfully good this year. Beat Green Bay last Sunday. Department has a pair of tickets. Let me know which Sunday. When you’re free, that is.”

  “Wait,” I said. I felt my head swimming. I wasn’t ready for all this. I needed to talk to my group. “I am not looking for a social life,” I told him. “For now I just want to solve this crime and start making money again.”

  “Then let’s solve it.”

  “How? We’ve, I’ve, got a huge problem, and you’re acting like getting some information on this is some long-term project.”

  He waved to the waiter for our check.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay. A, someone tried to poison Fritz. B, that same someone did it in Laura Smiley’s house after Laura Smiley’s funeral. C, nobody seems to know why Laura killed herself and she didn’t leave a note to tell us, and D, Laura and the Kormans didn’t get along. Now E, you’re telling me, this history between them goes way back. So maybe the two events, Laura dying and Fritz being poisoned, are related.” I closed my eyes and nodded. It sounded logical, didn’t it? “I told you before, it might help to know what that deputy coroner said about Laura Smiley’s death. If she didn’t leave a note, why are they calling it suicide?”

  “My dear,” said Schulz as he looked at the bill, “a note doesn’t mean squat. I’ve seen suicide notes that were photocopied, for God’s sake. With blood all over the room. I called the deputy coroner. She slashed her wrists, and there was no sign of a struggle, no burglary, nothing. That’s what I know. We treat a suicide like a murder until we know differently. In this case, suicide was the deputy coroner’s conclusion. Now granted, the guy is new. And before this he was out in some small town on the western slope.” Schulz rubbed his temples.

  I said, “Well, would you be willing to look into it some more? I mean if you really want to cooperate on this thing. And I’ll work your women’s angle. Talk it up, find out about Trixie and if the reason she works out with weights is so that she can exercise her aggression on people. Deal?”

  He nodded.

  “By the way,” I said, “did the Health Department find anything?”

  “No. It’s probably like sending it down to the crime lab.” When I looked puzzled, he said, “You’ve got to tell them, look for this, look for that. If you’ve got some white powder that’s cocaine and you say, Check for heroin, they’ll send your coke back to you and say, It’s not heroin. Same principle.”

  I smiled. “Thanks for dinner.”

  He said, “Hey. Something else. I need to know more about Vonette. Something’s wrong there, I don’t know what. And you’re welcome. Let’s do it again soon.”

  I nodded, although eliciting more information from Vonette was unappealing. I took a fortune cookie from the tray that held the check.

  “Look,” he said as he ate his cookie and tossed away the fortune, “we may have a bigger problem. Especially if whoever put the stuff in Fritz’s coffee is really trying to kill him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because,” he said patiently, “if somebody’s trying to kill him, they’re going to try again.”

  “At least they’re not going to do it at one of my catered functions,” I replied, then remembered the Halloween party in three weeks. I wasn’t actually being paid for it, just getting my club dues. Still. Better not mention that to Schulz, stickler for legality that he was.

  “We’ll have all this cleared up soon,” Schulz said confidently. “Trust the sheriff’s department.”

  I unfolded the paper fortune in my hand.

  It said, “Faith is your greatest present need.”

  Like Schulz, I tossed it.

  At home I noticed miserably that the leftover spaghetti mess in the sink matched the red and white decor of the kitchen. Honestly, that Patty Sue. If she could run all afternoon, why couldn’t she make a minimal effort to cook or clean? I tried to remember myself at twenty. Had I really never had the big picture of running a house before I had a child? Probably not.

  The house was quiet. Before going to bed I crept down the hall to make sure Arch was safely asleep. This had been my habit since he was born. John Richard had given me the title Helicopter Mom: I hovered.

  Arch was not asleep but was murmuring excitedly on the phone.

  “That sounds great,” he was
saying. “But what about the potion?”

  A pause.

  “No, you have to use milkwort for that. It’s all that’s available for lethal missions.” He listened for a moment, and then said, “You mean I’m going to have to find that, too? Don’t you know anything about getting rid of opponents?”

  Another pause. I felt a tightness in my chest. Blood pounded in my ears.

  “Oh, Todd!” said Arch, irritated. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to find the weapon and do the spell and put together the potion. I’m not going to have time for all that.”

  I knocked forcefully on Arch’s partially opened door. Perhaps it was just the hammering in my head that made the noise thunderous. Then I swung the door open all the way without getting an answer.

  He had hung up the phone.

  “What is going on?” I demanded.

  “Mom,” he said. He looked at me, hair disheveled, glasses askew. They seemed incongruous next to his baseball-print flannel pajamas. In his lap were a guidebook and folder for his games. “You’re home!” A pause. “Uh, I stayed up.”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling out of place. “I just came in to see if you were asleep yet. I heard you on the phone. Was it for your game?”

  He turned back to the papers in his lap. “Yes,” he said impatiently. “But I’ll call him back tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I said. I stood by his door, unable to put words together.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  He set his mouth in a straight line and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Please,” he said, “don’t sneak up on me like that again.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The next day I managed to book two cleaning jobs in the country club area, one for that day and one for the next. Since Fritz was back on his feet, I took Patty Sue to her appointment and instructed her to walk home while I went off to scrub, scour, and vacuum. I talked minimally to Arch before he left for school. If checking on him was considered sneaking up, then asking questions would be prying. I did elicit the promise that he would take me on a role-playing adventure over the weekend. It was time for me to find out what was going on with these games. Or at least try.

  The house to be cleaned was one of those rambling ranch-style structures done in all-western decor right up to the walls hung with harnesses, cowboy hats, sombreros, and horseshoes. Maid service of this ranchette took six hours, which included polishing a coffee table shaped like a flatbed wagon. The worst part was that I kept expecting Dale Evans to pop out from behind one of the numerous bathroom doors. She didn’t, and when I was done I was very glad to receive forty-eight dollars in cash.

  After making a run to a janitorial supply house in west Denver I picked up some groceries and came home to give Patty Sue her first lesson in housecleaning for fun and profit.

  “I’ll do whatever you say,” she said, but it was without enthusiasm.

  “Need to be safe first,” I said, as I Magic-Markered my name on the gallon bottle of phenol-based cleaning fluid I would use at the athletic club. Then I drew a skull and crossbones on the plastic bottle’s backside. Industrial-strength concentrations were much cheaper than anything in the supermarket, but they were dangerous to have around.

  “I really don’t know much about cleaning or chemicals,” Patty Sue said. She wrinkled her nose at the plastic bottle.

  “Look,” I said, looking directly in her eyes, “if you want to be independent, the most important thing is to be financially self-supporting. Housecleaning is a way. Not glamorous, but reliable.”

  “Yes I know, but …”

  “But what?”

  “Oh,” she said, turning away, “just never mind. Just teach me about it, go ahead.”

  Begin with proper dilutions, I began, pointing to the ten-to-one and twenty-to-one lines on the plastic spray bottles. When I finished, she gave me another wordless look, as if I’d taught her how to construct an atomic bomb in twenty minutes. I ignored it and cheerily assigned her Arch’s bathroom to practice on. This was a particularly dirty trick. But chiseling off all that dried spaghetti demanded retribution. I disappeared to answer the phone.

  “How’s my little darling doing?” asked Patty Sue’s mother over the crackle of long distance. One of her regular checkup calls.

  “She’s working hard,” I said truthfully. “As a matter of fact, she’s working right now, so can I have her call you back? Collect?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” said the mother, disappointed. “I was just worried if she was eating and sleeping all right.”

  It was difficult for me to see if I in fact overprotected Arch. But I could sure see it in other mothers. Would Arch end up like Patty Sue if I kept worrying about him? This was not a question to dwell on.

  “She’s eating and sleeping fine,” I said. “In fact, she’s doing lots of both. And exercising, working, and going to the doctor, so everything’s just peachy.”

  “I called the doctor’s office to see how she was doing,” she said.

  “And?”

  “They said she’s not improving.”

  “Well,” I said, impatient, “these things take time.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t want to trouble you.”

  “You’re not.”

  Next I phoned a real estate agent.

  “Kathleen,” I said breathily when I got through to the one person I knew at Mountain Realty. “I’m interested in buying Laura Smiley’s house.”

  “Oh, Goldy, the kitchen is marvelous,” replied Kathleen. “You’ll love it.”

  I knew darn well that the kitchen had minimal counter space and old appliances, but never mind. While Patty Sue grunted and scrubbed and rinsed in Arch’s bathroom, Kathleen and I made an appointment to go through the house the next day. She said that since Laura had left the house to her aunt it would be a while before we could close, but I told her not to worry, it would be a while before I had any money.

  Next I phoned Marla and asked her to fabricate a real estate emergency for the next morning so I could be rid of Kathleen once we got to Laura’s. She gleefully acquiesced. Marla hated real estate agents.

  _____

  It was still unseasonably warm for October when Patty Sue and I loaded the van the next morning. Overhead the sky was a deep periwinkle blue, as if a celestial housecleaner had spilled a bottle of bluing agent to the four corners of the earth. A few aspen leaves clung to the tops of slender bone-white branches: the last stage of autumnal undress. I swung the van around a corner toward the house Patty Sue was going to clean and wondered if we would have Indian summer through Halloween instead of our usual late-October snow. After I parked, Patty Sue gingerly pulled out all the cleaning equipment while I promised to pick her up in a few hours.

  “I heard your ex was getting married again,” Kathleen greeted me when I ground the van to a halt at the top of Laura Smiley’s driveway. I tried to find my tongue. If Marla had already put in her call, I would be out of luck.

  Kathleen was standing beside a silver Mercedes with a REAL ESTATE FOR SALE sign emblazoned on the driver side door. Surely there were better ways of advertising than wrecking a 450 SL. A sudden beeping interrupted my stare. Kathleen slipped back into her car to answer the mobile phone. There was much heated talking. Kathleen set her fine features into a frown.

  “Listen,” she said when she was back out of the car, “I’ve got a problem with an appointment from Denver showing up early. How about if I just give you the key and come back to finish showing you the house in about half an hour?” She smiled hopefully, and I blessed dear old Marla.

  I knew that Kathleen knew she would get her commission as long as she showed me the house at some point, so I smiled back and nodded, seeing as how I had no intention of ever being the supplier of the commission.

  “Oh,” she said over the roar of the Mercedes, “one more thing. I told that aunt I’d do a change-of-address form for Laura but things have been so crazy.” She rolled her eyes as if this explai
ned everything. “Anyway. I’ve been taking the mail in and putting it on the kitchen table when I show the house. Take it for me this time, will you?” she hollered.

  I nodded as she gunned her engine away. Would I? You bet.

  A breeze lifted the black smoke from the Mercedes’ tailpipe and dispersed it into a stand of chokecherry bushes heavy with scarlet berries. Once the car was gone the wind was the only noise. It whispered and sighed through the pines and spruces and aspens of the hilly neighborhood. I put the house key into my pocket and walked over to Laura’s rural delivery mailbox, the only kind we have in Aspen Meadow besides those at the post office. It creaked open after I pulled on the rusty cover. Inside was a small assortment of bills and ads. No letters.

  I looked through the bills. Here were people who thought Laura was still alive. Public Service of Colorado, a dentist whose name I did not recognize, a doctor whose name I did. I put the mail into my purse.

  As I started down the sloping driveway to Laura’s house, the wind kicked up again and sanded my eyes with dirt. Dread, sudden and unexpected, throttled me. I stopped and stared at the small house with its green-stained paneling and redwood deck.

  The wind stopped. Everything was very still.

  I pursed my lips and braced myself, then trotted the rest of the way down the driveway. After all, I wasn’t the first Goldilocks to go into an empty house. But at the open garage I came up short again. Had this car been here before? It was familiar.

  Then I remembered: it was Laura’s blue Volvo, which I had seen many times in the elementary school parking lot. It called attention to itself via its blaring bumper stickers: WOMEN MAKE GREAT LEADERS, YOU’RE FOLLOWING ONE and HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR TEACHER TODAY? and EASY DOES IT. I did not know where the car had been the day of the funeral, but someone had put it back now.

  I stepped around it carefully. There were some nicks in the flat blue paint, and the wheels sported a set of new, but muddy, radials. I did not know what I was looking for, except that it did seem odd that someone who wanted to kill herself would prepare for winter with the purchase of new tires. The doors were unlocked, but there was a decal on the window that read This Car Protected by Ungo. I had had one of those alarms installed in the van, just in case a guest at a catered function tried to filch a few dozen filets. On the side window I saw the small piece of plastic with its wire lead. If a thief tried to jam his way in through the window when the car was locked, his eardrums would never survive.