The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Big? How big?”

  “I’d have to check the Amour Anonymous notes on that.”

  “You still have those?”

  “I was the secretary,” I said proudly. “They’re all in a file in the basement.” I added, “Handwritten, though.”

  “Oh, great. They’ll be unreadable, and tucked between your college French notes, your notes from teaching Sunday School when Arch was seven, and your art history textbooks. Honestly, Goldy, do you ever throw anything out?”

  “Art!” I squealed, and moved my bum leg too fast. Pain shot up my spine. “That’s it.”

  “Art,” Tom prompted.

  “The stranger is an artist.”

  “Name?”

  I searched my memory bank, but came up empty. “Let me try to remember.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded feeble. “Now, what about George and Lena at the birthday party? What was the big fight about?”

  “They hadn’t been invited. Country-club friends asked them what they were taking to Drew’s party,” Tom said simply. “If I’d known Holly was going to drop dead an hour after George and Lena left, I would have gotten more details. But as it was, I was trying to get rid of the man you now say is an artist, plus two frustrated people, one of whom was the father of one of the birthday boys. Their tempers were frayed, and I just asked them to leave. A pair of deputies was due to talk to George and Lena tonight, but I haven’t heard anything yet. Okay, let’s get back to Holly’s money. She lost the house, transferred Drew, sold their cars, all while supposedly getting big money from George and having lots of collage clients. Anything else?”

  “There wasn’t much food in her house. She never liked to cook. Julian used to help her out, providing weekly meals, back when she was married to George. But that was a long time ago.”

  “So how were they eating?”

  “No clue. Presumably, Holly was making money on the collages, so even if she and George were fighting over finances, they’d have enough to eat out. Cheaply.”

  Tom took this in. “What did Holly have to eat and drink at the party? Did you notice?”

  I shook my head and exhaled. “She drank some wine, but I don’t think she ate very much. She did try some of one of Julian’s chile relleno tortas. He made torta especially for her, because it was her favorite dish from the ones he used to cook for her family. It’s vegetarian, so back in the day, George would eat it. She turned down the birthday cake and ice cream.”

  “All right. Maybe there will be some leftovers we can test.” He thought for a moment. “Do you know of other enemies Holly might have had? Besides her ex-husband and his difficult new wife?”

  “Edith Ingleby has always hated her.”

  “I’m not ruling anyone out at this point, but Edith wasn’t at the party. How about the people who were there?”

  “It might have been my imagination, but she seemed to be avoiding Warren Broome.”

  “Got it,” said Tom. “Anybody else?”

  I scrolled back through what I knew of Holly’s history. She’d lived in Denver, then married George and moved to Aspen Meadow, which we were now entering. Fog blurred the streetlights. The digital thermometer on the bank said it was forty-eight degrees. Think about Holly, I ordered myself, and shivered.

  After Holly moved out of Edith’s mansion, she bought a house in Denver. At the time, she’d said she didn’t relish the idea of commuting to Elk Park Prep for Drew, but she figured he needed to stay with his friends, the teachers he knew, that kind of thing. Once settled in Denver, she’d added, she wanted to go back to art school.

  Still, Aspen Meadow was spread out over thousands of acres of mostly forested, mostly hilly terrain. Holly could have taken her art classes during the day, and still been up to EPP in time to pick up Drew. She could have had his friends over to visit. She could have stayed at St. Luke’s. So why move to Denver? Had she really so desperately wanted to get away from George and his dragon-lady mother, that she’d felt the need to be forty miles away? If so, then why, after a relatively short period of time, move back to Aspen Meadow? Could it really have to do with what she said, spinning out in the snow? Selling a house in Denver, and moving back up here, seemed like a lot of upheaval . . . just to make your drive easier. In retrospect, Holly’s explanation sounded pretty feeble. I shared all this with Tom.

  “Okay, good information, thanks. Anything in your mind about former boyfriends, things like that?”

  “I don’t know. After she divorced George, she always seemed to have boyfriends. But none of them panned out.”

  “Do you know any names of former boyfriends? Do you think that artist might have been one of them?”

  “I don’t know any names. I didn’t put that kind of information in the Amour notes. Mostly we checked in on each other, made sure we were taking care of ourselves, that kind of thing. And we had discussions.”

  “What kind of discussions?”

  I thought for a minute. “We alternated between blaming our ex-husbands for all our problems and blaming ourselves for things falling apart. The main thing was, we wanted to support each other while we became better people. So we looked at issues having to do with . . . well, character. Why? Do you want me to turn over my notebooks to the department?”

  Tom said, “Not yet. But once you know the child support data, and if you find out medical information on Holly, I do want to hear.”

  We pulled into our driveway right behind Julian and Arch. The single-car garage was given over to my van, which I was thankful someone had driven home. I was suddenly so exhausted I just couldn’t call Marla back.

  My business line rang at 6 A.M. I threw off the covers and started to stumble out of bed. My plan for getting to my insistently ringing phone failed though, as pain seared my left leg and I fell on the floor.

  “You need to let me get that,” Tom scolded. He had just come out of the bathroom. He was dressed, looking as sharp as any investigator had ever looked, in a white shirt, navy tie, khaki pants, and charcoal jacket that I’d picked out myself. “We’re starting early on the investigation into Holly’s death and the sabotage of her deck. So I need to go in. You, on the other hand, need to stay in bed.” He helped me up at the same time that he answered the phone. “This is Goldy’s Catering, who is this and what do you want so early in the morning?” He was silent for a while, then looked at me with lifted brows. “Really? You and your husband both? Are you all right?” More silence. Then, “Do you remember what you ate and drank at the dinner?” He dug into his pocket, pulled out his notebook, and wrote in it. “Okay, thanks for calling.”

  “What?” I said, panting.

  “That was Doreen Smythe. She told me she and her husband had terrible nightmares. More like hallucinations. They ate chips and guacamole, tamale pie, torta, enchiladas, and cake. They drank wine. Their son ate chips and guacamole, then arroz con pollo, and cake. He had no problems.” I shook my head, confused. Tom jotted in his notebook, then observed me trying to get dressed. “Miss G.,” he said, “let me help you with that.” He gingerly pulled up the right leg of my biggest sweatpants, then my bandaged left leg. “Since their son didn’t have any trouble, Doreen thinks their drinks at the party might have been spiked with a hallucinogen.”

  “We had beer, wine, and soft drinks.”

  “Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. People can pour stuff into plastic cups just as easily as anything else.”

  I thought about this, and envisioned the line of plastic cups in Marla’s kitchen. The reason she hadn’t wanted anyone to go outside with bottles was in case one broke and a barefoot kid stepped on the glass. I already knew why she hadn’t bought canned beer: she thought it tasted funny.

  Tom told me his guys had completed the canvass of Marla’s neighborhood, with nothing to report. Now they were at work over near Holly’s rental, to see if anyone had noticed somebody sawing out a load-bearing beam under the deck. So far, two people had reported observing what looked like a tallish person, a man, they thoug
ht, wearing a uniform and a cap. He was working under the big deck the previous day. They’d guessed the guy was a window washer.

  “With a saw.”

  “What are you planning on doing today?” Tom asked, a note of warning in his voice.

  “Tom, it’s just past six o’clock, and I have a bum leg. I have no idea what I’m doing today.”

  “No cooking,” he warned.

  “Okay! No cooking! I’ll talk on the telephone and see if I can find those Amour Anonymous notes, how about that?”

  He eyed me warily. “Listen to me. If the department is treating this as a homicide, then that means there is a killer out there. Do you understand what I’m saying?” When I nodded, he went on: “When you talk to people? You reveal nothing, no matter how much you trust that person.”

  “Marla?”

  “Okay, you can talk to Marla. Make sure she knows to keep her mouth shut, though. Ditto Julian.”

  “All right,” I said. I wished Tom luck. Breaks in a case usually came fast right after a crime, and Tom had a crack team.

  But if I couldn’t reveal anything, and had a bum leg to boot, what could I do?

  I desperately wanted to find out what had happened to my dear old friend. I also needed to know why I’d taken that plunge into the lake.

  Okay, I would talk on the telephone. I would scour the Amour Anonymous notes. But, somehow . . .

  “Miss G.?” Tom asked mildly. “Holly was your friend, and no matter what I say, now you want to go talk to people, right?”

  I sighed. “I suppose so.”

  “You can go places, and you can talk. You can ask questions of people you know. I figured you would want to, but Sergeant Boyd is going to accompany you on every venture out of this house. I know you so well, I already called him. He agreed, and now he’s outside waiting.”

  “I don’t want his presence to intimidate people—” I began.

  “Oh, no?” Tom replied, his eyebrows raised. “I don’t want you dead. You can get Marla to drive you. But Boyd is accompanying you, wherever it is you plan to go. Got it?”

  9

  I let out a resigned sigh and agreed. I didn’t even know exactly what I was going to do yet, but I knew that the only way to lift the psychic pain from my shoulders was to do something. Anything. Tom took off. I did as many yoga stretches as my banged-up body would allow, then limped down to the kitchen. Julian was already there, dousing his espresso with sugar.

  “I suppose that phone call woke you up,” he said, his voice full of sympathy. “Me, too.”

  “Arch?”

  “Slumbering deeply,” Julian replied. “Which is good. I know he was worried sick about you.”

  “I’m glad he’s asleep.” I went to the front door and waved to Boyd, who signaled back. Apparently, he didn’t want to leave his patrol car, which was running. Back in front of my espresso machine, I asked Julian, “Did you have any weird dreams? The woman who called said she and her husband did, and they were like hallucinations.”

  He frowned. “Hmm. No. Did you? I mean, if you did, it would be only natural . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he drained his coffee, fired up the countertop computer, and scrolled through screens until he brought up the menu for the church dinner. He perused it, then set off for the walk-in.

  I said, “You can’t be serious about cooking now.”

  “I’m totally serious. I’m awake, aren’t I? We have an event tomorrow night, don’t we? My boss has a banged-up leg, doesn’t she? No time like the present to get going with prep.” He pulled out bags of frozen jumbo shrimp.

  “That’s prep?”

  “I’m going to change your menu a little bit.”

  I groaned. “Father Pete wants people to give to the church. Please don’t make anything weird.”

  Julian gave me a blank look. “Forget it. I’m making Weird Shrimp.” He paused, then said, “Just kidding.”

  I shook my head, put together my own quadruple espresso with cream, plunked in ice cubes, and snagged my cell. On our front porch, I waved again to Boyd, who nodded.

  Cool, sweet early morning mountain air moved languidly through the brilliant pink blossoms of my hanging ivy geranium. I drank some of the iced coffee and stared at the cell phone. Would Marla mind if I called so early? Probably not, if the call contained gossip.

  “Oh, dear,” Marla said. “My poor dishwater hands can barely pick up this phone. And my best friend, who promised to call me back last night, neglected to make said call, even though she knew I would need to talk to her. So I am not in a wonderful mood.”

  “This early in the morning? You’re never in a wonderful mood. If you promise you’ll keep this confidential—”

  “Oh, you take out all the fun.”

  “—then I can tell you what happened last night.”

  “All right.”

  “I was lured off the deck at Holly’s rental.”

  “Lured?” Marla’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Okay, I’m getting up. Wait a minute. After what happened here, with Holly?” She paused to blow her nose. “Oh, man, this pollen . . . I keep thinking about . . . you were lured? What is going on?”

  “Somebody set a trap by removing the supports to the upper deck at her rental. There was a message at the far end of the deck. I think it was meant for Drew, but it could have been intended for Holly, if the first chance at killing her didn’t succeed.”

  “So Tom is thinking homicide?” Marla said, disbelief audible in her voice.

  “First of all, have you heard anything, even the tiniest murmur, about Holly and Drew fighting recently?”

  “Well,” she said tentatively, “I did hear that they were having disagreements, but only typical teen issues, especially when there’s been a divorce. ‘I need money and you’re not giving it to me.’ Also, I heard he wanted to spend more time with George, and Holly was opposed.”

  “And you gleaned this information where?”

  There was a silence. “From Warren Broome,” she said finally. “I think. At the party? He came over and asked me a question about the enchiladas. I think I told him to go ask you. Did he?”

  “No.”

  “I’m so tired, Goldy, and the whole thing with Holly . . . I just don’t recall. But tell me why they think Holly was killed, as opposed to having a heart attack.”

  “Wait. First, do you have leftovers from the dinner? The sheriff’s department might want them, to analyze.”

  “No,” she wailed. “I ground up everything in the disposal.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. “I’ll give you all the pertinent facts when you come get me. I got scraped up when I hit the lake bottom,” I explained. “I don’t trust myself to drive. Also, we’re going to have a police escort, wherever we go.”

  “Don’t tell me. Boyd.”

  “You got it.”

  “So Tom doesn’t trust you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, what else is new?” She added, “Maybe he’s trying to keep you safe.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what he said.”

  “I’ll be there ASAP. But you better make me some of that iced coffee with cream. I know what you’re drinking. And oh, do I need it. I had the worst nightmares last night.”

  “Wait. You had nightmares?”

  “Yeah. The kind that are vivid, horrible, and in full color.”

  “What did you have to eat and drink last night?”

  “Um . . . why?”

  “Because you’re not alone. The Smythes also had hallucination-type nightmares.”

  “Okay, let’s see . . . I had guacamole, no chips, pollo, no arroz, one teensy-weensy enchilada, and chile relleno torta.”

  I swallowed. “Did you see anyone tinkering with the drinks or food?”

  “Goldy, everyone was tinkering with the drinks and food. But I don’t remember anything suspicious. If something occurs to me, I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  I tha
nked her and signed off. I drank my coffee and thought again of the plastic cups lined up on Marla’s island the night before. I had not seen anything already poured into the cups. Still, I went inside and started a new file on the computer. So far, three people had reported having nightmares: Marla and the Smythe parents.

  When Marla pulled up twenty minutes later—a record—she was driving her new white Mercedes SUV. She’d said she’d bought the car because she wanted to plow through our big snowstorms in style. I had asked Boyd if he wanted anything to eat or drink, and he told me he was fine. When I informed him a bit later that we’d be heading out soon, and where we were going, he said that was fine, too.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said, handing Marla the iced coffee. “I brought you fontina,” I added, and placed wrapped pieces of cheese between us. “I didn’t think you’d have time to eat.”

  “Thanks. No, I didn’t. You’re the best.” She glanced at her dashboard clock. “But where do you want to go at this hour, on a Saturday?”

  I’d been thinking about this. “I want to tell you where I want to go second before where I want to go first.”

  Marla bit into the fontina. “I’m listening.”

  “All right, then, the second people I want to talk to are the Inglebys. Things didn’t end well last night with them.” I patted a basket I’d brought into the car. “Edith loves my blueberry muffins, and I had some frozen. While we’re talking to Bob and Ophelia, they can be thawing.”

  “Bob and Ophelia?”

  “You remember that Bob Rushwood is the trainer at Aspen Meadow Country Club? After I talked to you, I called over to their new fitness facility. Boyd is going to follow us there.”

  Marla revved the big car’s engine and screeched away from the curb. “Go on.”

  “Bob has one client at this hour: Ophelia. She didn’t seem like the athletic type, so I doubt she’ll mind us interrupting her. Anyway, Bob was doing CPR on Holly right after she collapsed. I want to know how she seemed. Was she conscious? Was she having a hallucination? That kind of thing.”

  Marla raised her eyebrows. “You don’t think Tom’s guys have already talked to him?”