Sweet Revenge

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “We did. We found Bobby Calhoun in Nashville, actually. He says he hasn’t seen Sandee since the fire. But here’s the weird thing. When we questioned him, he said he wasn’t that much into computers, and he never noticed when Sandee was ‘doing the computer,’ as he called it. But after the fire, when he was on a singing gig one time, he came into the house he and Sandee had been renting and noticed her laptop was gone. He said he immediately thought he’d been burgled and checked his gun collection. Sure enough, his Sig Sauer was missing.”

  I stood, paralyzed, by the bathroom door. “She stole my gun and used it to kill the Jerk. Are you saying she stole another gun?”

  Tom looked rueful. “She did indeed. And Bobby did report the stolen gun to us, six months ago. But he forgot to mention the laptop.”

  “Anything else before I shower?”

  “Actually, yes. You knew Drew Wellington, as did we down at the department. But you and Julian saw him in party situations—”

  “Julian only saw him once, and that was when Drew showed up really late at a dinner—”

  Tom held up his hand. In it he held a DVD. “Just let me finish. You saw Drew in party situations when he’d been drinking, right?”

  “Yes,” I said tentatively. “I saw him a couple of times.”

  “Did he take drugs, too?”

  “That I didn’t notice.”

  Tom said, “Could you look at something with me?”

  “Sure.”

  We walked quietly down the stairs. I made myself a fresh latte while Tom fiddled with the DVD player. Finally we settled in the living room.

  “Miss G., thanks. This is a copy of the library’s surveillance video, from the time Drew Wellington came in just before three o’clock to when Roberta found him in the back corner by the emergency exit.”

  “It’s okay with your guys down at the department that I see this?”

  Tom was messing with the TV. “They want you to look at it, see if Wellington looks the way he did when he’d had too much to drink, or maybe when he’d been indulging in drugs, or both. We’re trying to establish when he drank his booze with the Rohypnol in it, when he drank the poisoned coffee, and what the hell he was doing stumbling around the library, instead of asking for help.”

  “Are you sure the library only has the one surveillance camera?” I asked as the grainy video popped up on the screen.

  “Yes. Facing the main entrance and exit doors.” Tom pointed. “Those are the electronic gates that sense if you’re filching a book without checking it out. You also can see the edge of the circulation desk.”

  I watched carefully as Drew Wellington, hale, hearty, and handsome, strode confidently through the electronic gates. He smiled broadly, knowingly, at the staff at the circulation desk, and even lifted his briefcase in greeting.

  “Isn’t there audio on this thing?” I asked.

  “We’re not talking the security cameras at the Denver Mint, here, Miss G. There’s no sound.”

  Tom began to fast-forward past people going in and out. “Stop it,” I said almost immediately. The camera was focusing on a young woman with brown hair, clad entirely in black. “That’s the woman I think is Sandee.”

  Tom peered at the screen. “Could be, I guess. You saw more of her than I did. A lot more.”

  “Okay, okay, I went to one of her strip shows last summer, but it was to talk to her.”

  Tom sighed and fast-forwarded through more folks coming in and out. Larry Craddock was distinguishable by his bald head and charging gait. He strode into the library at about a quarter past three, checking his watch, as if he had an appointment. I watched the parade of the rest of the library patrons. If Patricia Ingersoll or Neil Tharp or Elizabeth Wellington was among those coming in, she or he was wearing lots of obscuring winter clothing, or a disguise. I shook my head.

  “Wait, here we go,” Tom said.

  At half past three, Drew appeared on the video, stumbling up to the desk. He stopped, looked around, and seeing no librarian, lurched off to his left.

  “Where was he going?” I asked.

  “No idea. He didn’t ask for a book, didn’t ask anybody who works at the library to help him out. I checked, and if he thought he was going to puke, the men’s restroom is in the other direction. Ditto with the pay phones, in case he didn’t have his cell with him and wanted to call for help.”

  I stared at the screen. The self-assured attorney-turned-map-dealer who’d waved his briefcase at the library staff when he first came in was no longer there. Instead, I saw a man who looked as if he were physically ill. I said, “He’s not carrying his briefcase. Is there any evidence he was going toward the newspapers, or to dump change into the copying machine? Those are the only things I can think of that are over on that side of the library.”

  Tom shook his head. “Nope. There’s that hallway you were using when you unloaded your van, and there actually is another security camera outside that exit, pointed at the Dumpster. Reason for that is that the staff thought somebody was playing pranks on them, tossing their trash all over the parking lot. But it was a bear. That camera didn’t pick up your van or the vehicle that was blocking you, unfortunately, since it’s aimed at the Dumpster and not at the parking spaces there.”

  I asked, “Is there anything else down that hallway besides the exit, that might have been Drew’s destination?”

  “Not much. There’s the circulation workroom, the lunchroom, and the storage area, where they keep volumes for the used-book sale. That’s it. And there’s no evidence Drew either went into or came out of any of those rooms. The librarians swore to our guys who secured the library that all three rooms were closed and dark.”

  “Maybe he got lost,” I said.

  “And him the map guy.” He stopped the video. “So, how does he look to you, Miss G.? Drunk? Strung out?”

  “He appears very drunk. I certainly never saw him that plastered at any party I catered. But if he had a drinking problem—”

  “Oh, he definitely did,” Tom observed. “A well-known drinking problem. The question is, Did he come to the library drunk and drugged with a very small amount of Rohypnol? Or did he come just feeling a bit tipsy, then somebody put Rohypnol in his flask and cyanide in his thermos once he got to the library? We don’t know.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “It’s okay.” He started the video again, speeding up the frames. At just past four, yours truly, carrying the box I used for dishes, marched across the screen. Tom whistled.

  Then I spotted someone coming in just after I did—someone I recognized. “Stop the video. Is that Smithfield MacArthur?”

  “Yes. He told us that Drew asked to meet him at the library, although he didn’t specify why. But MacArthur was late getting there because, he says, he had trouble driving on the unplowed streets. He says he couldn’t find Drew and assumed he’d missed him. You’ll see he leaves the library about ten minutes later.”

  Tom started the video again. The two of us watched as Drew staggered back into view, then out again, presumably going back to his corner. Smithfield MacArthur then reappeared, his red face looking furious as he raced out.

  People checked out books and left; a few hurried in to do copies or look for things to borrow. A short man who might have been Neil Tharp turned away from the cameras and exited through the doors. Hank ushered out a protesting Larry Craddock. Finally, the woman appeared with her little boy. The mom was carrying a sack that presumably held the Disney videos, while the little tyke raced out ahead of her, into the snow.

  “That’s it,” Tom said as he ejected the DVD. “Thanks.”

  “You’re certainly welcome.”

  “You know that used-book sale I just mentioned? While you and Julian were catering tonight Arch had his pals help him clean some of the stuff he doesn’t want any more out of his room. He said you and Julian both told him to get his act together organizing, so he figured he’d enlist his own private army. He promised them some o
f Julian’s fudge, plus any of his castoffs they wanted.” I shook my head, thinking of Tom Sawyer conning his buddies into whitewashing Aunt Polly’s fence. Tom went on: “They’ve packed the outgrown clothes into bags. They’re about halfway through sorting the books. Those will be going into boxes, and they promise they’re going to put all of it into the back of your van, once we retrieve it from Main Street. You don’t have to deliver the books for the library sale or the clothes for Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach today if you don’t want to or don’t feel up to it. But I just wanted you to know what was going on if you saw a lot of stuff in the back of your vehicle. I can shuttle it around later, if you want.”

  “I’ll see how I feel. One of us is going to have to do it, before Julian and I cater the luncheon at the MacArthurs’ house on Monday. What’s the last thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “You’d asked us to do background on Sandee, so I did. We couldn’t find anything. Remember, neither her mother, Cecelia, nor Sandee herself tried to turn in her lascivious father. You still think she’s the one you saw over by Regal Ridge and in the library?” I nodded. “Remember, when you saw her last summer, she’d had plastic surgery and changed her hair color from when she lived here, so even her own mother didn’t recognize her.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. And her mother wore specs as thick as wavy glass blocks.”

  Tom pulled out his trusty notebook and flipped to a page. “Sandee went to Aspen Meadow High School and graduated without distinction, except for her membership in the Explorers Club.”

  “She was lost,” I said in a low voice. “A lost soul. She wanted to figure out where she was going, if even in a literal sense.”

  Tom shrugged. “Her father was murdered, which is still an unsolved case—”

  I snorted. “Not in my book it isn’t. I’m sure Sandee killed him, too. Sandee had no alibi.”

  “We didn’t consider her a suspect back then, because we didn’t have her motive. Well, you asked me to do the background check, and I did. Goldy, look at me.” When I turned to him, I knew my face gave away my despair. Tom dealt with lawbreakers all the time, and I knew, as did he, that he could handle the details of sex crimes better than I could. “Miss G., I’ll go pack that pie and the coffee cakes into your van now, if you want. Get the snow off it, warm it up for you.”

  “Thanks so much.” I turned to take a shower, but was stopped by Tom, who came over to give me a hug. When he’d gone downstairs, I turned the shower on extra hot. I didn’t care if the water scalded me. The memory of Sandee Brisbane, who’d taken vengeance into her own hands eight years after the Jerk had raped her, made my skin feel dirty and cold.

  I wanted to wash off that sensation in the worst way.

  14

  Half an hour later, I was showered, dressed, and in our kitchen, where I was sautéing chicken thighs—for Jake, our beloved bloodhound. Our veterinarian had told me I could cook up poultry, rice, and carrots, all without spice, and the dog would love it. He’d been right.

  “I know you’re not taking fried chicken to the coffee hour,” Tom said over my shoulder. “That’s sort of a summer dish, isn’t it?”

  “Very funny. This is for Jake.” I poured in raw rice and carrots, added water, and covered the pan. “Please keep it on very low heat until everything’s done. Should take about half an hour. Cool and bone the chicken before you give it to him.”

  “Aye-aye, madam. That bloodhound is going to love you, or rather me, forever. Should I wake the boys up for church?”

  “Up to you.”

  “Maybe I could bribe them, remind them of Julian’s promise that one of us will take them over to Regal Ridge to snowboard, after they’d done their duty to God.”

  “I don’t know, Tom,” I teased him. “Do you think God would approve of you offering enticements in exchange for holy behavior?”

  “Trust me, I’m a deal maker from way back. And the folks I offer deals to have been conducting themselves in much worse ways than Arch and his buddies.”

  I kissed Tom’s cheek and pulled on a jacket. I was just about to take off for St. Luke’s when my business line rang. I closed my eyes and tried not to visualize Hermie MacArthur ringing me up to cancel the next day’s luncheon. Tom checked the caller ID.

  “It’s Marla. Are you sure you want to talk to her? You’ve only got forty minutes before the service begins.”

  I sighed and took the phone. “I know this must be important,” I said into the receiver, “or you wouldn’t be calling at ten after seven.”

  “And good morning to you, too, best friend.” She sounded distracted, or tired, or troubled in some way.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly. “Listen, this afternoon the Broncos are playing their last game of the regular season. Can you do a party for me? I’ve got this new big-screen TV, and everybody wants to…nothing fancy,” she went on, “just enough for eight people—”

  “Marla, are you out of your mind? You don’t even like football. And anyway, today’s my one day to catch up on—”

  “Oops, there’s my call waiting. I’ll give you the menu at church. Come to the early service, okay?”

  “I’m already going to the early service!” I screeched.

  “You don’t need to yell,” she said and hung up. I slammed down the phone and uttered a string of creative curses under my breath. Talk about unholy behavior.

  “Problem?” Tom asked.

  “Oh, Marla wants me to make food for eight people for today’s Bronco game. I still have to prep Mrs. MacArthur’s lunch, and there’s Arch to look after, and anyway, I wanted to have time to talk to Neil Tharp at church today, not go over some new menu Marla’s dreamed up.” I slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Maybe I just shouldn’t go at all.”

  Tom walked over and held out his arms. I stood reluctantly and allowed myself to be embraced. He said, “Just think of it. Not only do I now get the great culinary challenge of cooking for the dog, I also can experiment on eight of Marla’s well-heeled pals. D’you think they’d go for something made with hamburger?” When I groaned, Tom said, “Miss G., go to church. You’ll feel better.”

  I trudged out the back door toward the garage. A grainy midwinter snow fell steadily. The billions of crystals hitting the neighborhood looked and sounded like a celestial sugar bowl being dumped from above. The weather was bitterly cold, and every now and then a sharp wind snapped through the pines. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees from the previous day. I couldn’t imagine Arch and his buddies wanting to snowboard in this.

  Tom had not only cleared off and warmed up the van, but moved it back to our driveway from Main Street. I shivered anyway and thought I should have worn a sweater under my jacket. The frigid breeze seemed to be blowing right through my vehicle’s closed windows. I made my way slowly down our road, then turned left toward St. Luke’s. Crusted levees of snow and ice lined Main Street. To my right, clouds of steam billowed up the banks of Cottonwood Creek. The winter had been mild up to this point, and the creek was still much warmer than the surrounding air.

  When my tires crunched into the church parking lot, the first thing I saw was Marla’s new Lexus LC, a metallic inky-blue sporty model. Honestly, that woman bought cars the way I purchased mixers. Marla, clad head to toe in her politically incorrect mink, had her arms crossed and was tapping the toe of one of her mink-trimmed boots, as if she’d been waiting for me for several hours. I swallowed my dismay and tried to figure out what was going on with her, because if she’d bought a big-screen TV, it was to see what new fashions were being worn by celebrities.

  “Listen, Marla—” I began as I walked up.

  “You listen,” she said, her expression dark. “Something’s going on with that Sherlock Holmes–type woman from Boulder. You know, Julian’s landlady, who helped you with the garden-club lunch yesterday? Grace Mannheim?”

  I squinted through the falling snow. “What are you talking about?”


  Marla looked around quickly, as if white-haired Grace were about to pop out from behind a spruce tree, wielding an ax. “Let’s go inside, to a room where we can close a door.”

  “I’ve brought cherry pie and coffee cakes for after the service. Can you help me bring them in?”

  “Oh God, the things I do for you,” Marla grumbled as she followed me to the van.

  “Don’t start. You want me to do a party for you this afternoon—for eight people, no less?” I pulled open the sliding door and hauled out a basket of paper plates, napkins, and plastic forks.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it. That was just my excuse for getting you here early.” As she hooked the basket over her right arm, she glanced up at the sky. It had only just begun to brighten. “What the hell time is it, anyway? It looks and feels like four in the morning.”

  “Half past seven.” I handed her the cherry pie. “Be careful with this. And by the way, Tom is at home making a luncheon dish with ground beef for eight people, for you and your celebration of a new big-screen TV.”

  “Oh, good!” she called over her shoulder as she sashayed toward the church entrance. “I’ll invite some folks over.”

  How would cherry pie look splashed over mink? I wondered. I immediately brushed away such sinful thoughts, balanced Tom’s two sour-cream coffee cakes on a tray he’d helpfully put next to them, and followed Marla through St. Luke’s heavy wooden doors.

  When we were safely ensconced in the church kitchen, with our baked goods on the center island, the door closed, and the bamboo curtain pulled tightly across the serving window, Marla dramatically shed her fur coat and faced me.

  “I invited Grace to shower and stay at my house, Goldy. She looked tired at the garden-club lunch, and I wanted to help out.”

  “She told me she was doing that. You’re great.”

  “Right. But listen. Remember Grace said she wanted to help get Patricia Ingersoll out from under the sheriff’s department’s cloud of suspicion?” When I nodded, Marla went on: “She showed up yesterday and wanted to be involved with the catering, right?”