“I’m sure they did. But they didn’t have clients calling early this morning saying they had nightmares and hallucinations after ingesting something questionable.”
“Ah.”
“Okay. Now a question for you: did you ever see Holly at Aspen Meadow Country Club?”
“Yes. But not recently. That doesn’t mean anything.”
I ignored this. “Holly was a fitness fanatic who, according to Drew, hated doctors. I’ve never seen her at the rec, or that much more downscale place, Aspen Meadow Fitness. And Holly belonged to the country club, or she used to, back when she had money. So . . . did she work out there, do you think?”
Marla said, “Goldy, I am the last person who would know this. Even after losing all this weight, I wouldn’t be caught dead in the club’s new fitness facility.” She shuddered. “Skinny people with money, working out with their headphones on? How am I supposed to get gossip from them? I have a treadmill at home. Also hand weights, which I look at from time to time.”
“Okay, but I was thinking—”
“Always a dangerous undertaking.”
“Holly’s doctor is in Hawaii somewhere, out of cell-phone range. So if anyone would be likely to know whether she had other health issues, wouldn’t it be Bob Rushwood? Or somebody else there at the club? You’ll have to get Boyd and me in, though.”
“Goldy, I don’t want to. Those jocks at the club will judge me.”
“You’ve never been in their new fitness facility. And you’ve just lost a bunch of weight! How can the athletes criticize you, if they don’t recognize you?”
“Oh, all right. Plus, maybe one of them will be cute.”
On the way to AMCC, I filled Marla in on my visit to Holly’s, along with Tom’s investigation so far. I reminded her everything had to be secret, and that we were to reveal nothing and trust nobody. I’d remembered the uninvited stranger was an artist. Had he not looked familiar to her? I asked. She said no.
“My sources did come up with something,” she said as she zoomed along. “Ophelia’s father, Neil Unger? He won’t pay for her to go to college. He’s only given her money for clothes shopping for the past two years. No money for tuition.”
I thought of über-wealthy Neil Unger banging around my kitchen on Thursday, and trying to clean up America through his organization, The Guild. Now, back in medieval and Renaissance days, guilds had been good things, bringing together carpenters and stone masons and other folks engaged in the same professions. Guilds were the precursors of unions, and I’d often wondered if there was a caterers’ guild.
But those weren’t the kind of organizations Neil Unger had in mind. This spring, he had paid me to do a dinner for The Guild at my conference center. Even though I’d been well compensated, even though it had led Neil to contract me for Ophelia’s party, his speech after the dinner had left me feeling queasy. He spoke disarmingly to an enthusiastic, all-white, all-male group about what he called “those people.” And who were those people, exactly? By the end of the evening, I had concluded only that they were crooks. What they were doing or stealing was never clear to me.
Marla said, “Goldy? Hello?”
I said, “Sorry. My train of thought derailed. Why won’t Neil pay for Ophelia’s college tuition? He thinks college professors are crooks?”
“No, my sources say he’s punishing her. It had something to do with the former fiancé being a crook.”
“Neil is big on crooks.”
Marla waved this away. “At the country club, he announced on numerous occasions that if his daughter couldn’t figure out the man she was going to marry was a thief, then clearly she wasn’t college material. According to Neil, his daughter concurs in the not-being-smart-enough assessment.”
I said, “But you’re not sure she actually agrees with him?”
“Does Ophelia seem like the stupid sort to you?”
“No,” I admitted. “But actually, I’ve never heard her say much. She averts her eyes whenever she sees me. And maybe she’s not the intellectual sort, but with all that money for clothes her father gives her, you’d think she could dress like she wasn’t an escapee from the fifties. Clearly, her father’s mind-set is stuck back there.”
“Overbearing men with money,” Marla said. “I think they’re in every decade.”
But speaking of the fifties, I was pretty sure that was when Aspen Meadow Country Club had been built. Never updated, its main building, with its stone-and-wood façade, always put me more in mind of a deluxe Holiday Inn than a country club. There was a neon-green golf course, kept pristine in our arid climate by sprinklers that were now swishing arcs of water in rhythmic circles. Only a few cars dotted the parking lot, which was no surprise. Who wanted to jump out of bed early on a gorgeous Colorado Saturday morning, and hightail it to an indoor place to run?
Five people, to be exact. When we entered the dungeonlike facility, Bob was working with Ophelia on what looked like a Tower of London torture machine. There were only three other people in the gym, two of whom were white-haired gents who looked as if they were retired. Those two, who were nearest to us, raised their eyes admiringly to Marla. She ignored them. The men were walking on treadmills, which, like the early-Saturday workout phenomenon, was another thing I didn’t understand. Okay, Marla walked on a treadmill, but her neighborhood was hilly, and she had had a heart attack. With our state so lovely and leafy in summertime, why would these men walk on treadmills in a windowless, neon-lit, mirrored room that still smelled like its newly installed carpet?
As Boyd, Marla, and I paced carefully toward Bob and Ophelia, I reflected that there were a lot of things about Colorado’s health obsession that I didn’t understand. That was why it was the fittest state in the nation, and I was the one supplying the butter and cream.
I checked in with myself. How did I feel? My leg hurt. The emotional ache caused by losing Holly was still there, like a bruise you’re afraid to touch, but do anyway. You want to see how the pain is compared to the last time you felt it. I was doing only slightly better. I put this down to wanting to be helpful in the investigation into Holly’s death. My jaw set. I owe her that much, I thought.
I glanced over at Boyd, who wore the green-and-brown uniform of the sheriff’s department. He looked uncomfortable with the training facility, but not nearly as out of place as he’d appeared the few times Tom had told him he had to cater with me.
“Bob Rushwood!” Marla called, as if they were old friends. “We need to talk to you for a minute.” Before we could get over to Bob and Ophelia, though, the third man in the gym trotted up to Marla. She squawked, then recoiled and got hold of herself. “Oh, Neil. I didn’t recognize you without your clothes on. Your usual clothes, I mean.”
Actually, Neil Unger was wearing workout wear: a white T-shirt and white sweatpants, both emblazoned with the navy-blue logo for The Guild. My heart did a nosedive. Why had he stopped us? I did not want to talk again about Ophelia’s party. Instead of addressing Marla, though, Neil nodded at Boyd, who gave him a slit-eyed look. Then he turned to me. Like Marla, I involuntarily leaned away.
“I was sorry to hear about your friend,” he said in that raspy voice of his.
“Um, thank you.”
He sighed. “I knew her, you know.”
“No,” I said, trying not to betray sudden interest. “How?”
“Oh, just . . . from the club.” His smile was all charm. “Her death won’t affect your ability to do Ophelia’s party, will it?”
I tried not to sigh. Even after all my years catering, the narcissism of the wealthy still took me by surprise. “No. We’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Mr. Unger,” I said, my tone deferential.
“I’ll be coming with her,” Boyd said, his tone so low I had to strain to hear it. Now what, I wondered, would possess him to offer that nugget of information?
“Is that necessary?” asked Neil.
“I’m just giving a helping hand,” s
aid Boyd. “As will her assistant, Julian, who has been to your place before, I believe.”
“Took food out to my driver the other day?” Neil said. “Kid from Boulder?” His tone filled with distaste. I waited for him to say that everyone in Boulder was a crook, but he only whispered, “I think maybe you were right.” He glanced over at Ophelia, then back. “I think perhaps she doesn’t know about the party.”
“I hope not.”
“Please don’t be late,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said to Neil’s backside as he slid off in the direction of the men’s locker room.
“Yes, sir?” Marla echoed. “What, are you an army private now?”
“No,” I said. “The guy just scares me.”
“Come on,” Boyd said jovially. “He’s going to clean up America. Let’s do what we came here for.”
“Bob?” Marla called. “Can we talk?”
Bob looked up from where he was guiding Ophelia on a machine designed to strengthen biceps. The poor girl’s scarlet face streamed with sweat, and she seemed very glad to be interrupted. Her thin dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail from which many strands escaped. She wore oversize dark sweatpants along with a graying NHL T-shirt that I recognized as a giveaway from a Colorado Avalanche game. She certainly didn’t appear to be a wealthy young woman, excited about her twenty-first birthday, just two days away.
Bob reluctantly let her off the machine. Ophelia looked warily at Boyd, then said she would allow us to talk in peace. She put plugs in her ears and flopped onto a nearby bench, where she picked up an oversize book she’d left tented there. I wondered if the interest in muscle building was hers or Bob’s. I suspected the latter.
Still, I wanted to make nice, if for no other reason than that I would be catering her birthday party, and, hopefully, her wedding. I limped over and smiled at her, but she assumed a blank face and pulled out one plug.
“I love to read,” said I. “What book do you have there?”
She reluctantly held up the spine of her thick volume: Architectural Planning. Hmm, not on my night table. She didn’t want to elaborate, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I walked cautiously back over to the others.
“What’s the matter with your leg?” Bob asked, worry creasing his handsome face as I approached Marla’s side of the machine. He brushed back the dreads and peered into my eyes. “You’re in pain.”
“Kitchen accident,” I said, acting grieved at my own clumsiness. “Spilled grease on the floor, slid in it, fell. I’m fine,” I lied.
“We want to talk to you about Holly,” Marla said earnestly. “She was our friend. A dear friend. Did she work out here?”
“Look,” Bob wearily replied, crossing his arms across his black Aspen Meadow Country Club Spandex top. “I had the cops at my place until ten last night.”
“Hi,” said Boyd suddenly, moving forward and offering his large paw. “My name’s Sergeant Boyd, also with the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. I’m just helping Goldy and Marla deal with the death of their friend. Could you help them out? They want a better understanding of what happened.”
Bob’s forehead furrowed. To me, he said, “To answer your question, Goldy, Holly used to work out here at the club, but then she quit. That was last fall. I know her mostly through her son, Drew, who helped build trails with our crew out in the Preserve last summer. I don’t know what could have caused her to collapse like that in your driveway, Marla. I mean, she was just, I don’t know, strolling along, right?”
“Right,” Marla confirmed. “Was she conscious when you started working on her?”
“No.”
“When she worked out here, did she tell you she had a history of heart disease?” I asked.
“No.” Bob sighed as he rubbed his eyes. “Like I told the sheriff’s department investigators, back when I saw her here, she just did strength training. She knew which machines she was planning to use and she kept charts of her progress. She didn’t want any guidance from me. I don’t know where her charts went, because we clean out the lockers of people who quit the club as soon as they leave.”
“Before the party, when was the last time you saw Holly?” I asked sharply. My leg was beginning to hurt badly, and I wanted to get out of there. “Did she seem ill or tired or anything?”
“I talked to her on the phone on Thursday about doing the presentation for the trails project at your sons’ birthday party. But I hadn’t seen her in person before the party since the last time she worked out at the club.” Bob gestured in the direction of his fiancée. Absorbed in her book, she didn’t even notice him. “That’s when I started working out with Ophelia,” he said, a tad too loudly. “And it turned into something else. My sweet girl and her books. She’s really smart, you know.”
Ophelia looked up at him, then went back to reading. Most women would have beamed at flattery rained on them, especially from a handsome fiancé. Instead, Ophelia did not look up when she said loudly, “I’m almost done with this chapter.” Aha, maybe the earplugs didn’t block out the noise, after all. She asked, “Can we skip the rest of the arm curls?”
“Nope,” said Bob. “But we won’t make these as hard.” He winked at us.
Ophelia pulled out the earplugs, inserted a bookmark, and walked back to the machine. Before getting on, she gave us a sour look.
“You know,” I said thoughtfully as I hobbled back to the Mercedes next to Marla and Boyd.
Marla said, “I know what you’re going to say.”
“Okay, mind reader, what?”
“That Ophelia, who’s reading some book that makes you involuntarily sneer in disgust, is not the kind of person who would willingly forego college.”
“Why, Marla,” I said admiringly, “I think you’ll do okay in this investigating business after all.”
10
Are you sure you want to take on the Inglebys?” she asked, revving the engine. “You really do look as if you’re in pain.”
“I’m not taking on the Inglebys,” I said lightly. I rearranged my legs so the weight was off the bandaged one. “You and Sergeant Boyd are accompanying me as I deliver blueberry muffins.”
“And what was Ophelia reading?” Marla asked as she whipped her Mercedes out of the country-club parking lot. When I told her, she said, “Architectural Planning? I heard AMCC is going to tear down the existing ugly-ass clubhouse, and build something new. Maybe Ophelia could help them out.”
“Just drive.” Meanwhile, I punched in 411, got the number for Aspen Meadow Country Club, where I left a message, asking for someone to call me back.
“Why are you doing that?” Marla asked.
“I want to know exactly when she quit the club.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Presumably she was either beginning to have, or was in the middle of having, a financial meltdown. So what I’m wondering is, when in the fall did that start?”
Marla said, “The club won’t tell you anything. But one thing is certain. She sure wanted me to keep what I knew about the foreclosure to myself.”
“Right. I’m just trying to figure out the time frame for these problems starting for her in the financial department. She quit the club. She sold her luxury cars and bought old used ones. In the middle of the year, she pulled Drew out of EPP and put him into CBHS. If an outsider were putting these events together, he or she would say, ‘She’s short on funds.’ And so she was trying to get those funds, or more of them, from someone who wasn’t happy about it, and sent her that text message. Maybe it was George or someone else, a client for the collages, say, or somebody who owed her. It could have been from someone who had loaned her money before.”
Marla decelerated as she approached a curve. “So. Where did all the wealth she used to have go?”
“The woman loved to shop. And then there was a recession. Where did any of our money go?”
Marla shook her head. “She was having severe financial problems. She tried to extra
ct money from somebody. Then she was killed. What does that tell us?”
Grief reemerged and wrapped itself around me like a heavy cloak. I gripped the basket of muffins and said, “I don’t know.”
We pulled up to the entrance to the Ingleby mansion fifteen minutes later. Too late, I remembered the last time I had visited Holly here. A high fence surrounded the property, complete with a gate and intercom. To my surprise, though, the gate was open, and we did not have to wait to be allowed entry. At the same time, Marla and I wondered why this was so. Marla zoomed up the driveway. Boyd followed us through.
When we got out of our cars, Boyd came over to us. “Now remember,” he said, “we didn’t let Drew come over here, because George and Lena had a fight with Holly right before she died under mysterious circumstances . . . and you fell through a trap into the lake. So if they push you to know why Drew isn’t staying with them, you just let me say it was department policy, okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
Marla complained, “This investigation work doesn’t allow me enough latitude to dig for gossip.”
Boyd smiled. “Deal with it.”
Meanwhile, the answer to the open-gate question came in the form of the sleepy-looking woman who answered the front door of the immense house, built from red brick in complete defiance of Rocky Mountain style, which deemed that all houses above the elevation of Denver should look either like ski lodges or Mexican restaurants.
“I’m the maid,” the woman said, blinking. She was tall, white, midfifties, with gray hair like steel wool. She did not seem hostile so much as exhausted. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
Boyd stepped forward, showed his ID, and introduced himself. “I’m from the sheriff’s department. We drove through the open gate.”
The maid eyed Marla and me before saying, “Don’t tell me you’re from the press.” She wore jeans and a faded T-shirt that had been silkscreened with a picture of a red Ford Mustang.
“We’re not,” Marla replied. “But why would you think we were?”
The Whole Enchilada Page 10