Sweet Revenge

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “I didn’t crash into anything,” I protested. “Somebody attacked me and tried to send me over the cliff. And when I fought back, the person tried to suffocate me in the snow.”

  “What?” cried Tom, Arch, Todd, and Gus in unison.

  And so I told them what had happened. No, I told them, I didn’t know if it was a man or woman, and no, I hadn’t seen the person, nor did I recognize the voice.

  “Ow-wow!” I cried. Thousands of bees were stinging my fingers and cheeks simultaneously. No, wait, I was getting the feeling back in the parts of my skin that had been exposed. “Agh!” I shook my hands free of Gus’s ministrations, then wagged my head from side to side. The neck muscle injured this morning protested. Another wave of dizziness rolled over me, and I suddenly realized that my chest and back both hurt like hell.

  “Aunt Goldy,” Gus said gently, “I hope you’re going to be able to take it easy for a couple of days, and really not do any catering—”

  “Forget it!” I hollered, with more heat than I intended. “Sorry, Gus, it’s just that I can’t.”

  “Or won’t,” Arch muttered from the front seat. Tom shook his head.

  What I didn’t say to them was that I didn’t need to cater so that I could help Julian, who was perfectly capable of running the MacArthurs’ lunch without me. Nor was I going to continue because I needed the money or even because I was worried about pleasing my clients.

  No—I was going to continue to do my job so that I could find out who had killed Drew Wellington and Larry Craddock, because now I was really pissed.

  An hour later, when we’d arrived at Lutheran Hospital—now called something else that I could never remember—a very nice Indian doctor came into the cubicle with Tom and me and began to poke, prod, and examine.

  “Do you know how long you were in the snow?” he asked.

  “Not long,” I replied. “Twenty minutes, tops. It’s a bit fuzzy, though, because I think I passed out. The person tried to suffocate me.”

  The doctor tsked. “You are very lucky your lungs were not harmed. You are also lucky not to have frostbite,” he announced.

  “I’m fine,” I declared, although in truth, I ached from what was now the third bust-up I’d had that day. Which had been worse, crashing Marla’s car, rolling to the creek bank, or being assaulted at a ski area? I’d have to think about that one.

  “Perhaps you will not do skiing now, eh?” the doctor asked as he tapped my knees to check reflexes. “It is a very dangerous sport.” Apparently satisfied that my feet could kick on command, he stood up straight. “You must not do anything strenuous, that requires the use of your arms and legs now, eh? For the next couple of days. You do understand me?”

  I exhaled, looked down at my lap, and shook my head.

  “Mrs….” He consulted the chart. “Mrs. Schulz? You do understand me? Tomorrow you will hurt very much.”

  “Doc,” said Tom as he helped me off the exam table, “don’t even try.”

  21

  The next morning the doctor was proved right. I had a hard time taking a deep breath, and my muscles hurt something awful. In fact, I groaned so loudly getting out of bed that I woke Tom.

  “Goldy, what are you doing?”

  “Getting up.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not.”

  Outside, a lone streetlight shone in the darkness. Our room was chilly, despite the fact that the heater had begun the clicking noises it made when it came on. The green numerals of the digital clock glowed brightly, indicating the time was exactly six o’clock. Oh, how I wished the solstice would just get here and then be over so we could start the upward climb to summer.

  “I turned off the alarm.” Tom’s voice was warm and comforting. “I really hoped you’d sleep. Didn’t you take those painkillers the doctor gave you? You should take another one.”

  On my night table, Tom had put a glass of water and the brown bottle from the doc. I shook out a pill and downed it. “Okay, med administered. Now I’m going to go take a shower.” I hesitated. “Sorry I’m not in a better mood.”

  “It’s not like you don’t have an excuse, Miss G.”

  “Actually, I think the tumble down the hill in the morning was worse than the face-plant in the snow in the afternoon.”

  Tom sat up on the edge of the bed. “Well, Calamity Jane, I’m not surprised. If we could just dangle you in front of the killer, maybe we could catch this guy. By the way, I’m staying home with you again today.”

  “What was that you just said? Oh, no, you’re not. Anyway, Tom, I want you to go into the department so you can figure out what’s going on. You, we must be getting close to something, if people are going to the trouble to follow us and heave me into the snow. And anyway,” I added, “I have to do this luncheon with Julian, or Hermie MacArthur will go nova.”

  “Julian is very worried about you, by the way. He already called Grace Mannheim to come help. She wants to, but isn’t sure she can make it.” He chuckled. “You’re not going to believe this. She asked to speak to me, said she wanted to know when she could get into—wait for it—Drew Wellington’s house!”

  I stumbled off to the shower. “You should set a trap over there.”

  “We would,” he called after me, “if a) it weren’t so dangerous, and b) we wouldn’t be afraid of getting the wrong person. Wait a minute.” He ambled into the bathroom behind me. “At least let me wash your hair so you don’t lift your hands over your head and pass out on me.”

  I was too tired to protest. The hot water did not feel quite as wonderful as I thought it would, and I was still having trouble taking a deep breath. But when Tom’s large hands massaged my scalp, I began to feel better—much better. I especially liked the part when he brought his warm body right up next to mine, to begin the rinsing.

  “This is really nice,” I murmured as I clasped him around his warm, muscular middle.

  “If you let me stay home,” he said over the water, “Julian could do the luncheon, and you and I could spend the day in bed.”

  “Why not just have a little fun here?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure you’re up to it.”

  “Did you lock the bathroom door?”

  And so we made love in the shower. By the time I collapsed, panting and laughing, onto the mat outside the shower door, my lungs still ached.

  But I felt healed.

  “I’m going to make a breakfast that you are going to adore,” Tom announced as he toweled off.

  “You’re the best.” I tried again to take a deep breath and finally succeeded. The band of pain around my chest had eased.

  “I’m sure Julian’s already got your espresso machine going.” Tom pulled on his work clothes: dark pants, a white shirt, and a sweater the color of oatmeal. “And by the way, I’m going to tell Big J not to let you out of his sight today.”

  “Where’s Arch?”

  “At the Vikarioses. They came and got Todd and him last night, after you’d crashed. Now that school’s out for the holiday, I imagine those three boys will be inseparable. Anyway, Arch says he’ll call us when he wants to come home.” Tom hesitated. “Have to say, Miss G., you were a little hard on the kid yesterday. He was just worried about you, trying to help.”

  “I was hurting. But okay, I’ll call him.” I gave Tom a pained look as I suddenly felt suffused with guilt. “Can I get him something extra for Christmas?” Tom and I had already gone on a fun-filled shopping trip for Arch…in early October. It was hard enough being a caterer over the holidays, and I’d learned that I couldn’t shop in November and December.

  Tom shook his head. “No need, I’m certain. He just wants to be reassured of your affection.”

  “Well, he always has plenty of that.”

  “I know that, and you know that, but sometimes a kid needs to be told, even if he does pull away from all your hugs.” He smiled, and those sea-green eyes made my heart go pitter-pat, even though we’d just had one of those showers.

  “She appears!�
�� Julian cried, when I entered the kitchen.

  “Knock it off, I haven’t had my espresso yet.”

  “Coming right up.” He set aside the tool he’d been using to remove the zest from a pile of lemons, put a demitasse cup under the espresso machine’s doser, and let ’er rip. I looked over his preparations for the persillade that would coat the lamb chops. If we calculated correctly, the chops would come out at the same time as the Prudent Potatoes au Gratin.

  Which reminded me. “Let me start on the second pan of potatoes. Where’s my mandolin?” When Tom and Julian began to mutter discouragement, I said, “It’s an easy enough job.”

  “Drink this first,” Julian ordered as he placed a dark, crema-topped double espresso onto the kitchen table. I sat as bidden and took my first sip of much-needed caffeine. Zing! I’d be able to cater two parties!

  Tom stopped what he was doing, which looked as if it involved mushrooms, and rummaged in the cupboards until he located my mandolin. Julian, meanwhile, stopped working on the persillade and began peeling the potatoes that I would be slicing.

  “Guys!” I protested after taking another slug of espresso. “I can do my own prep work!” This was followed by more grumbling from the two of them, so I let go of it. I remembered what Tom had told me: that I’d been too hard on Arch when he’d just been worried about his mom.

  Tom then told me to sit still, he almost had the breakfast ready…which I did. A few moments later, he insisted that Julian take a chair, too. In front of each of us, he placed steaming dishes of perfectly shirred eggs topped with sautéed wild mushrooms and chopped fresh chives. By the time I’d finished diving into that, I had just about forgotten the horrid previous day.

  “If anything develops,” Tom said as he donned his coat, “I’ll call. In the meantime, would you see if you can stay out of trouble for one day?”

  “Absolutely,” I promised.

  “Julian,” Tom warned, “don’t let her have the keys to the van.”

  “No way.” Julian’s dark eyes looked severe, and if I hadn’t known that he, too, was concerned about my welfare, I would have given him the kind of reply I liked to think of as raspberry tart.

  Once Tom was gone, I began to make short work of the potatoes with the mandolin.

  “You sure you’re okay with that?” Julian asked.

  “Actually, I still have no sensation in my fingers. So if I cut a couple off, I won’t feel it.”

  “Boss!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I noticed he had finished the persillade and was packing it up. “Are you going to chop the sage for me? I’ll do the Gruyère.”

  “Tom told me to do both.”

  “You want to keep your job, you won’t coddle me.” I marched into the walk-in and nabbed the cheeses and cream.

  Julian groaned, but acquiesced. He knew on which side his brioche was buttered.

  We arrived at the MacArthurs’ house just before ten, and by that time I was on my third espresso. Between the caffeine and the painkiller, I felt ready for anything. But in truth, I was not prepared to face both Elizabeth Wellington and Father Pete when Julian pulled the van into the MacArthurs’ driveway.

  “What are they doing here?” I asked Julian.

  “Believe me, boss, unless they came two hours early to tell folks where to park, I haven’t the foggiest notion.”

  Elizabeth looked contrite; she would not even meet my eye as Julian and I exited the van. Instead of sporting her usual angry red, she was clothed in a modest gray wool pantsuit, pale pink makeup and lipstick—and pearls. Was this the outfit of repentance? Somehow I doubted it. Father Pete nodded a greeting while I wondered if he would be coming to the luncheon, to be Elizabeth’s spiritual crutch. Man! Catering could get complicated.

  “I’ll start bringing the boxes in,” Julian whispered. “You can go meet with the welcoming committee.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “Goldy,” Father Pete said as I walked toward the two of them. “Elizabeth has something to say to you. She wanted me here for emotional support. Actually, I want to help both of you.”

  Really? If Elizabeth was going to confess to poisoning and stabbing her ex-husband, or bashing Larry Craddock’s head and drowning him, we were going to need a lot more than a priest and a caterer to make me feel comfortable. We were going to need law-enforcement-type people, preferably with firearms, just in case.

  “I called Father Pete,” Elizabeth said, “because I felt so embarrassed about yesterday.”

  “Oh, well, then. You can pay the bill when it comes from Lutheran. Emergency-room care? Maybe a couple thou.”

  The old Elizabeth came back in a heartbeat. Her dark eyes flashed, and she bunched her hands into fists. “What are you talking about?” One of those icicle-style shivers plummeted down my spine.

  “Now, Elizabeth,” Father Pete cautioned.

  She swallowed. “I truly do not know to what you are referring.”

  “I have work to do,” I said, still defiant. “And I’m getting cold out here. If you pushed me into the snow yesterday afternoon, then it would be helpful if you turned yourself in to the sheriff’s department, instead of running to the church for cover. Even the bishop can’t help you beat the rap for assault, I’m afraid.”

  Elizabeth turned to Father Pete. “This is like yesterday. I have no idea what she’s talking about. I think we should leave.”

  Father Pete’s voice was even more gentle than usual. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell her what we talked about? Goldy doesn’t know what that is.”

  Elizabeth faced me, her face and body stiff. “I am sorry I was so rude to you yesterday. I was upset about Patricia Ingersoll, who reminds me of the terrible time I had with Drew. I apologize for taking it out on you.”

  “Hey, guys?” Julian called from the door that entered the kitchen. “Why doesn’t everybody come in and talk? Chantal has made some banana cupcakes that she wants us to try. Marla’s already here, and Mrs. MacArthur said it was okay for us all to visit.” When we didn’t move, he said, “It’s sure a lot warmer inside!”

  “Goldy, would you just give Elizabeth five minutes?” Father Pete rubbed his hands together, as if to indicate that we wouldn’t freeze in that short a time. “If you can focus, you might be able to answer some of those questions you’ve been wondering about.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  “Yo!” Chantal called from above us. “Doesn’t anybody want my cupcakes?”

  Just after Father Pete replied that yes, he thought cupcakes would be a great idea in a few minutes, I saw something. It had nothing to do with the welcoming committee, as Julian called them, but with the house next door. Like the MacArthurs’ mansion, the enormous residence took up most of the lot on which it was situated. But the place was supposed to be empty, the owners gone to Florida. And yet I’d caught a glance of a face at a window.

  My heart turned in my chest. Sandee. It had to be Sandee. Was I being paranoid? I didn’t want to look again, because I didn’t want to scare her off. Not yet. As I trod up the stairs to the MacArthurs’ kitchen entrance, it took all of my willpower not to turn and check if the face was still there.

  I was desperate to find out if it was Sandee. But I knew Tom would never speak to me again if I tried to sneak into that house next door. I sighed.

  In the kitchen, Julian was doing an efficient job unwrapping the lamb chops and placing the dishes of potatoes au gratin on the center island until it was time for them to heat. Chantal was keeping up a monologue of flirtatious banter, which Julian was very good-humoredly abiding. I didn’t know which car Marla had driven over in, but when she saw us enter, she came over and gave me a long hug. I stood by the repaired kitchen window, keeping an eye on the house next door.

  “Girlfriend!” Marla cried. She held me back to assess me. She wore a red cashmere sweater and skirt, as well as a double strand of emeralds, and she looked positively twinkly. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen and stay awhile?”

&n
bsp; “I’m just going to stand here,” I replied. “But listen, you look great.”

  “I called last night, but Tom said you’d gone to bed. He said you had a mishap.”

  “Actually, I had several mishaps.”

  “Besides wrecking my car? Do tell.”

  “I will, just not right now.”

  Meanwhile, Chantal nabbed her plate of cupcakes and brought them over to us.

  “I made these myself,” the teenager said of the misshapen lumps, each of which boasted a good half inch of frosting.

  “Try one,” Marla encouraged. “I’ve had two, and I’m going to be on a sugar high until lunch.”

  Julian stopped what he was doing and washed his hands. “Okay, how many coffees and how many teas?”

  While he moved around fixing drinks I ate the cupcake and glanced occasionally at the house next door. The cupcake was like wet clay; when the clay hit my stomach, it turned to lead. Not only that, but in the warmth of the kitchen, I again had trouble getting a deep breath. After grabbing two coffees, Marla came over and murmured in my ear: Was I all right? I nodded. But really I wasn’t; I ached. And I did have several questions. Was that Sandee next door? If Elizabeth Wellington didn’t push me into the snow, then who did? And anyway, where was Grace Mannheim? If we ever needed her help, now was the time.

  Elizabeth licked her fingers and thanked Chantal, for which I gave her points. Marla, who was on her third cupcake, thanked her, too, as did Father Pete and I. Chantal, beaming, went back to regaling Julian with a culinary narrative that, I gathered, did not end with nearly as much success as her cupcakes.

  Marla sipped her coffee and watched me with a worried expression. Elizabeth, in the meantime, was starting to tell her story. What had Father Pete said? If I focused, I’d get answers to my questions. Once again, I was very doubtful. But I forced myself to concentrate, wheezing lungs and all. Marla, ever curious, snuggled in next to me. Where was Hermie? Getting dressed, I hoped.

  “The whole thing with Patricia,” Elizabeth said in a low voice, “just always sets me off. I’m sorry Drew is dead, or at least I think I’m sorry, but actually, he died to me a long time ago. I know that sounds cruel”—she took a deep breath and looked to Father Pete for support—“but it’s reality.”