With a reminiscent smile, I stepped into the cafeteria, happy to see that everything looked to be on schedule. The high school choir stood on risers at one end of the long room, ready to burst into song when the superintendent appeared, and nets secured hundreds of balloons to the ceiling. Tables set—check. Food ready—check. I let out a long breath, relieved that nothing was on fire and no one was screaming about rats or overflowing toilets.
“About ten more minutes, I’d guess, before they wrap up the roast,” I told Alana Higgins, owner of the catering company I favored for large events.
“We’re ready,” she said, and we chatted for a couple of minutes, before I saw Bernie Kloster, in the black slacks and vest, white shirt, and black bow tie that made up her bartending gear, emerge from the kitchen carrying a tub of ice. I’d forgotten she would be here.
“Let me help you with that, Bernie,” I called, moving toward her. Taking one end of the tub, I helped her carry it to the bar set up at the back of the cafeteria.
“Thanks, Amy-Faye,” she said.
Her face was pale and pinched, and even her exuberant hair seemed limper tonight. She’d hinted that she’d dated Gordon and that they’d broken up; I wondered if she’d really cared for him.
“You heard about Gordon?” I asked tentatively.
She nodded and bit her lower lip. “Yeah. I couldn’t believe it when Billy told me this morning. He’s always up before the rest of us on a Saturday and he was looking for the funnies page when he saw it in the paper. He hobbled in and knocked against my bed and I swear to God I thought the house was on fire, the way he was carrying on. When I finally got him to calm down, I didn’t believe what he was saying, not until he showed me the front page with Gordon’s picture. ‘That’s that guy who liked you,’ Billy kept saying, jabbing at the page so hard he tore a hole in it. ‘The one with the Camaro.’ He’s mad about cars, Billy is. Gordon took him for a spin once and Billy didn’t talk about anything except that car for a week. Supercharged this, direct injection that, Bluetooth and navigation system.” She smiled thinly.
“I’m sorry, Bernie.”
She waved a would-be dismissive hand as she began setting glassware up on a table behind the bar. “I didn’t love him . . . At least, I don’t think I did. Not really. He was exciting, and handsome, a good lover, and he had money. I know that shouldn’t matter, but when you’re barely scraping by, a guy who can take you out for a nice steak dinner seems nicer and smarter than the guy who can’t even manage a bucket from KFC.” Her voice was tinged with matter-of-fact self-knowledge. “It’s the shock of it, more than anything. That, and I feel bad that I was hanging out with those women who were bad-mouthing him all night. He wasn’t a saint, but he didn’t deserve that.” She sniffed.
I dug a packet of Kleenex out of a pocket and offered them to her. “Did you know any of them?” I asked after she blew her nose. “Had you met them before?”
I helped her align liquor bottles atop the bar’s tablecloth-covered surface. I knew it wasn’t the first time liquor had been present in the high school; Allen DiDomenici and some of his pals had spiked the punch at the prom our senior year.
She shook her head. “Well, I knew Susan Marsh, of course. She had no business there, I’ll tell you. The pot calling the kettle black.”
It took me a moment, and then I clinked two bottles together in surprise. “You’re saying Susan cheated on Gordon?”
“Uh-huh. She had a fling with one of Kolby’s teachers, Gordon said. Even though it was years ago and they’ve been divorced forever, I could tell he was still hurt by it.”
“Huh.” I didn’t know what, if anything, to make of that. “What about the other women? Did you get their names?”
“The blond with the big boobs was Guinevere Dalrymple. I mean, how do you forget a name like that? Her parents should be shot, don’t you think? Gawd. She seemed to be in charge. I think one of the other gals was Sally something. I was pissed, so I don’t remember like I should. The opening was a disaster with the fire and all, and I was sure I wasn’t going to have a job in a week, so I drank a bit more than I should have.” She busied herself pushing the cartons the liquor bottles had been in beneath the table, and I guessed she was ashamed of getting drunk on duty.
I committed the name to memory. There shouldn’t be too many Guinevere Dalrymples, if I Googled it. The sound of voices headed our way told me the roast portion of the evening was over. I needed to get back to work. Saying a hasty good-bye and good luck to Bernie, I gave the choir director the high sign and they began a rousing chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” as the super and his family came through the door. Crimson and white balloons cascaded from the nets secured to the ceiling, and people gasped with pleasure. Everyone joined in the singing and I let myself take pride in how well things were going. It was balm for my wounded professionalism after last night. Maybe I still had a future in the event-planning biz.
Chapter 10
It was already hot when I got out of bed Sunday morning and readied myself for church. I didn’t go all the time, but I felt the need after the week’s events. My parents would be at St. Luke’s and I suspected they’d drag Derek along if he’d spent the night with them. I was right, I discovered, when I slid into the pew beside them two minutes after the service started. I never seemed to get to church exactly on time. I’d long ago decided there was something psychological about that, since I could make events at a party happen with the crisp timing of a Sousa march.
Mom scooted over to make room for me, and I whispered a compliment on the hibiscus-patterned muumuu that swathed her bulk. Its pink background rosied her magnolia-petal complexion, the envy of every woman north of forty in the entire town. Her naturally curly hair was pinned up under a straw hat with a rolled brim. Sheena at Sheena’s Hair Jungle was responsible for dyeing it back to its original chestnut every month or so. Her eyes were hazel, like mine, and she had a wide mouth slicked with a pink lipstick that matched her dress. She patted my thigh, smiled in her good-humored way, and faced forward to listen to the minister.
My mathematician dad, built like a lumberjack with a graying beard, loomed on her other side. He waggled his bushy eyebrows at me in welcome. He’d exchanged his usual plaid shirt and jeans for his church attire of short-sleeved shirt and belted slacks. Dad had no interest in clothes. Zero. Keeping Dad dressed appropriately for his job as a professor at the university was kind of a family hobby: Natalie gave him a couple of no-iron shirts each year, Mom supplied him with socks and underwear, and my other sisters contributed sweaters and the occasional tie. I gave him a new belt, reversible black/brown, every other year for Christmas as my contribution to his sartorial adequacy. Derek, not usually a churchgoer since he’d left home, gave me a look that said, Get me out of here.
It almost made me giggle, but I primmed my mouth and paid resolute attention to the service. After, we greeted the minister and some of our friends. Derek drew me away while Mom and Dad were chatting with one of the elders about the new capital campaign. “Let’s get breakfast,” he said. “I’m starving.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mom and Dad? They—”
“I’ve been mommed and dadded to death,” he said, tugging me along toward his Subaru Outback, a venerable workhorse used to hauling all sorts of brewing, camping, and skiing gear. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful for them, they’re sticking by me, and they let me hide out at the house yesterday—but I need a break. Mom kept wanting me to feel a lump on her arm and tell her if I thought she had liposarcoma, whatever the heck that is. I reminded her that she banged her arm on the car door.”
I laughed in understanding. “Where do you want to eat?”
In answer, he put the car in gear and headed toward the Pancake Pig, where a chef-hatted pig held aloft a platter of pancakes from atop a tall pole. An Elvis number battered us as we entered the white, turquoise, and chrome interior, which wasn’
t as crowded as I expected. We must have walked in between the before-church crowd and the after-church crowd, and gotten lucky that the didn’t-go-to-church crowd was out hiking or boating or otherwise enjoying the glorious day.
“I’m going over to the pub today,” Derek announced after he ordered a Western omelet and I asked for my usual blueberry pancakes. “The police said they’d be done with it. I need to get started on cleanup.”
“Good for you,” I said, relieved that he seemed to be past the shell-shocked despair of yesterday. “Do you need me to help? I don’t have anything going on this afternoon.”
He looked grateful but hesitant. “Foster’s coming—I’m paying him triple overtime—but if you have time . . .”
“I’ll come out for a couple of hours.” I told him that the Readaholics were all on his side and filled him in on our plan of attack.
He looked skeptical, as if he didn’t think we could really help, but said, “Thanks. I appreciate your friends helping out.” He went on to tell me about his discussions with his lawyer and what he’d heard about Gordon’s funeral. “His mom’s in a nursing home in Denver, so they’re doing it there,” he said. “His sister’s putting it together. Angie, from the opening. Kind of surprising, actually, given that they never got on, even before Kinleigh died. Her mother was suing his dad, or vice versa—I couldn’t keep it straight. Organizing the funeral might be her way of saying ‘sorry.’ I’ll go, of course, if the police don’t toss me in jail before then.” He squirted Tabasco on his eggs with a splatting sound.
I hated to hear him sound defeatist. “Derek—”
“I know, I know.”
“I’m happy to go with you, keep you company on the drive, if you want.” Denver was a good four hours from here.
“Thanks, but I’ve got business in Denver, too. With GTM.”
Gordon’s company. I didn’t pry into the details beyond asking, “Will you be able to keep Elysium open?”
He chewed and swallowed before answering. “If I don’t go to prison. Gordon’s death doesn’t change GTM’s contractual obligation to Elysium. He was going to pull out of the deal, but there were several iterations of lawyers and court dates and arbitrators to wade through before that got finalized.”
So Gordon’s death benefited Derek even more than I imagined. A million dollars of insurance. Freedom from the worry that Gordon was going to pull the plug on their partnership. I didn’t say so aloud. There were others who had benefited by Gordon’s death; there had to be.
• • •
The standard August afternoon storm clouds scudded across the sky as I arrived at the pub around three o’clock. It looked so much like the way it had on Friday that I repressed a shiver. The gravel in the lot was churned up and the grand opening banner sagged sadly from one side of the building, tangling with yellow-and-black crime scene tape that had been torn down but not removed. Derek’s Subaru and a Honda Accord I took to be Foster’s were the only other vehicles in the lot. Squaring my shoulders, I walked into the pub, determined not to let the atmosphere get to me.
“Where shall I start, O captain, my captain?” I asked Derek, who was collecting glassware in a plastic tub. My perky attitude and smile were intended to lift his spirits.
“Stop with the poetry stuff, okay?” he said semiirritably. “We weren’t all lit majors.” He thrust the tub at me and I took it automatically. Its weight strained my biceps.
“Wow. We weren’t all music majors, either—does that mean we never listen to music? And we didn’t all study art, so does that mean—?”
“Just get the glasses into the dishwasher, okay?” he said. “Foster’s working on the bathrooms. I’m going to start upstairs.”
“And we weren’t all dishwashing majors, but we still do dishes,” I called after him as he headed up the stairs. I thought I heard a snorted half laugh from him, so I was happy.
The kitchen was a disaster. Between the fire and all the police marching in and out in the rain, tramping in mud, it looked like a herd of drunk mastodons had held a convention in it. My gaze went to the back door, but it was closed. Relief sighed through me. I didn’t have to look at the Dumpster where I’d found Gordon’s body. I set to work loading the glassware into the industrial dishwashers, and made three trips into the bar area and the pool lounge to collect more before setting the dishwashers to run. They started with a satisfying gurgle and were soon emitting a brisk lemony scent that made me feel efficient.
I began making a list of what else needed to be done; I couldn’t help myself—lists pour out of me like words from a novelist or stock market figures from a broker. The microwave needed to be replaced and someone brought in to repair the burned dry wall and paint it. The—
Tuneful whistling sounded behind me, making me whirl. Foster came in, black bangs sweat-glued to his forehead, coverall damp in spots. He stopped whistling midtune when he caught sight of me, and used the mop to push the wheeled bucket into the kitchen.
“You startled me,” I said.
“Sorry. Bathrooms are done. Not much point in mopping in here yet, I guess.” He looked around at the chaos and smiled.
I realized it was the first time I’d seen him smile and it seemed weirdly inappropriate in the circumstances. Maybe he was happy to be making extra money. “Uh, thanks for coming in on a Sunday,” I said. “I know my brother appreciates it.”
“Seemed like the least I could do,” he said with a nod of acknowledgment. He opened the louvered door of a storage closet and slid the bucket in, hanging the mop on a rack.
“You mean because of what happened? Gordon dying?”
“Tossed off a roof: Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy,” Foster said with simple pleasure. He banged the door closed.
I hadn’t expected him to be grief-stricken, but his reaction was several shades off normal. I backed up a step. “Come again?”
“Gordon Marsh was a bottom-dwelling, scum-sucking lowlife,” he said, a hint of venom twisting his smile. “If I had any balls, I’d have killed him myself. Bully for whoever did it.”
I stared at him, speechless for a moment. The clinking of glasses in the dishwasher and the churn of the machine filled the kitchen. Clearing my throat, I finally said, “I take it you knew him?”
“We didn’t hit the links together, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest and leaning back against the counter. The fingers of his right hand tapped incessantly against his left biceps. “GTM—Gordon—bought out my company a year ago. Before the ink dried on the contract signatures, I was out on my ass. All the leadership team got canned because Gordo wanted to bring in his own team. He fired me personally. Looked me in the eye and told me I didn’t have the skill set the company needed, that I didn’t fit with the new management philosophy, that I was a dinosaur. I spent twenty-six years with that company, and suddenly I don’t fit in?” Ruddy patches flared on his olive skin, and the pulse in his neck beat like he’d run a four-minute mile.
“I’m fifty-four—not exactly highly employable in this economy. We had to sell our house and move into a crummy apartment. We’re living upstairs from a pair of high school dropouts who smoke dope, sleep all day, and play crappy music all night, and next door to a loser who stocks shelves at City Market. That’s not who we are. We used to live in Redlands Mesa in Grand Junction. My wife stuck by me, but she had to go back to work—she’s teaching preschool for a pittance. You don’t think it kills me that I can’t support my wife? Most of our old friends are embarrassed by our circumstances—we don’t see much of them anymore. It’s not like we can invite them to dinner; we don’t even have a dining room. My son—my twenty-six-year-old son!—offered us money to tide us over.”
“That was nice of him,” I ventured, thinking that Foster had a darn good motive for murder (if there was such a thing). He’d also had opportunity . . .
&
nbsp; “A father’s supposed to take care of his children, not the other way around,” he yelled.
His fury brought home the fact that I was trapped in the kitchen by the man who might have murdered Gordon. He was between me and the door leading to the pub. I was closer to the back door, but if it was locked, I’d have to fumble to open it and he’d catch me, if he wanted to. He didn’t have a weapon, but he was a burly guy and since I’d neglected to add hand-to-hand combat skills to my résumé, he could probably take me down without even breaking a sweat. Resolving to sign up for a krav maga class if I got out of this kitchen alive, I held up my hands in a placating gesture. “How did you end up working here?”
Almost absentmindedly, he picked up a scrubbie and began to scour the counters. That knocked my tension level down a notch; a scrubbie wasn’t as threatening as a knife or an Uzi.
“I had a lot of time on my hands, what with no job and only the occasional interview for something for which I’m hugely overqualified, so I started following Gordon’s buyouts and investments. I was looking for an opportunity, an opportunity to do to Gordon what he’d done to me. I was a bouncer at Moonglade for a while, but then that went out of business. I had nothing to do with it, but I counted it as a win. I took home a bottle of champagne that night and celebrated with my wife. Oh, she thinks I’m obsessed and I should just let it go, but how do you just give a pass to the guy who ruined your life?”
The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle Page 9