The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “That ought to take care of Miss Beliar,” she said, pressing her phone’s power button. She watched Julian mince scallions, grate Gruyère, whisk eggs, and melt more butter. Arch, meanwhile, washed his dishes and made himself scarce. “Go ahead,” Marla said, satisfied, once our omelet was cooking. She nodded at our message machine. “What else have you got on there?”

  Julian and I smiled at Marla’s nosiness, but she was doing the driving, paying for the church dinner, and most important, helping gather information on what might have happened to Holly. We—I—owed her.

  On my machine, Patsie Boatfield asked if I could call her.

  “My, my,” said Marla as she washed her hands. “Maybe she heard the gossip about her hubby, too.”

  “What gossip and what hubby would that be?” Julian said, sliding a heavenly scented omelet onto a platter between us.

  “Oh, nothing,” Marla said, uncharacteristically closemouthed for once. She picked up the platter and made for the door to our basement. “Girls’ Club meeting in the basement! Julian? Could you please bring down plates, napkins, and flatware?”

  “Thanks, Julian, really,” I said as he gathered up what we needed onto a tray, then added glasses of water.

  With genuine concern, he asked, “What’s the matter with Marla?”

  “Oh, Lena and Edith Ingleby were mean to her.”

  “People have been mean to Marla forever.” He heaved the tray onto his shoulder with the professionalism of the restaurant-trained. “It never upset her before.”

  “It did this time,” I said firmly, then followed him down the stairs.

  As I limped carefully toward our cellar, I remembered when Tom had moved from his cabin outside Aspen Meadow into our house. He’d lived with us a few months before tentatively asking if we could take on some home-improvement projects. He promised we would have to agree on everything before he started.

  At first, I suspected he wanted to toss all our old furniture and replace it with his lovingly maintained antiques. But as it turned out, the antiques had found pride of place in the house, and I was more than willing to donate the furniture that Tom’s pieces had displaced. Our first big project had been cleaning out the garage so Tom could store his tools. Luckily, we’d ended up with so much extra space that when Julian moved in with us, he had been able to store his few boxes next to Tom’s shelves.

  After the garage project, Tom and I started on the basement, with the idea that we would make room for his computer and files. Since that meant sorting through much accumulated stuff, I agreed, albeit reluctantly. The garage had been a piece of cake, so to speak. The basement was a whole bakery’s worth of issues.

  Over Tom’s ensuing days off, though, we filled dozens of bags with discarded toys, outgrown clothes, and assorted gewgaws. We saved what I was desperate to hang on to—all the notes and files I’d had forever—then donated what was usable, closed my eyes, and tossed the rest. Nevertheless, I’d looked with despair at the new space. It seemed dingy and barren until Tom suggested we paint it white, which we did. Then we put up bright red-, yellow-, and blue-striped curtains in the half windows above the washer and dryer, his desk, and our combined bookshelves and file cabinets. In the end, it seemed like a whole new room. I’d been grateful, and still was.

  Once Julian clopped back up the stairs, Marla and I divided the omelet, which was creamy, tangy, and utterly delicious. Then we portioned out the tasks. We would call Patsie together. She had been a great help when Holly collapsed. And we both felt sorry for her for marrying Womanizing Warren. So we would put my phone on speaker, we decided, then judge if our reactions to what she said were in sync.

  When I phoned the Boatfields’ place, Warren Broome answered, and I was very glad I’d put the phone on speaker. After I identified myself he barked, “What do you want?”

  “I just, well”—should I call him Warren or Dr. Broome?—“your wife called me.”

  “Why did she do that?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “You live in the same house as she does,” I said, suddenly fatigued by how cantankerous everyone was this morning. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  He hung up.

  “Weird,” said Marla. “Okay, let’s give Patsie some time. Maybe she’ll phone you back. If she doesn’t, I’ll try to call her.” She eyed the wall of file cabinets. “Please tell me you have this organized.”

  “More or less,” I said, trying not to sound lame.

  “I’ll take our dishes to the kitchen,” she offered. “While I’m there, I’ll go into your dining room, to call a couple of people to see if anyone knows anything about this supposed affair between Warren and Holly. You see if you can find what we’re looking for in the money department.”

  So I did. I kept the file for Amour Anonymous next to one with the curriculum for teaching Sunday School with Holly. We’d hardly ever needed the church school curriculum, and as Tom had kindly pointed out, I’d kept both files for close to ten years. But I was adamant. I might need my meeting notes someday. This morning, I had not commented to Tom that we were now seeing proof of this philosophy.

  I extracted the file, and remembered why the Amour Anonymous members had started the whole note-taking enterprise in the first place. Even though we were anonymous to the outside world, we recognized early on that some of us were having great insights. We wanted to keep track of them. Since no one else had wanted to be secretary, I volunteered. At the end of each year, we had a big party where we celebrated each other’s progress, and I read out our best insights.

  I was dismayed to see that the edges of the pages of the spiral notebooks were now brown and curling, and was glad I’d labeled the notebooks by year. Luckily, I’d also written down who was present at each meeting. Holly had only been a member for two years. But as I looked at my notes, it seemed as if I’d spilled coffee or that my ink had run on at least half the pages. Even I had trouble making out what I’d written.

  When Marla returned, she said gloomily that all of her regular sources said yes, they’d heard Holly and Warren had had something going, but they all thought it had ended a long time ago.

  “Give me something to do,” she said.

  I gave her one year’s worth of notes. She flipped through the pages and made a face. “What am I looking for in this run-together chicken scratch, Sherlock?”

  I felt embarrassed that I hadn’t at least typed up the notes when the group had ended, but back then, there hadn’t seemed to be any point. “What we should search for at this point is Holly’s settlement with George.”

  Marla shook her head. “All right, I’ll try to look for numbers.”

  Half an hour later, neither one of us had been able to find the details of Holly’s financial situation. But I was sure they’d been in the notes. Marla, convinced I might have written out the numbers in longhand, was taking longer to read my handwriting than I was. I offered to make coffee.

  “It better not be Frank’s finest,” Marla said, peering close at a page, “or I’m going to have a fit.”

  When I brought iced lattes downstairs a few minutes later, she was puzzling over another page. “Now I know why lawyers make so much money.” Marla was an expert on the law, at least when it pertained to money.

  “There’s something in there about attorneys?” I asked.

  “Not yet. But they have to go through boxes and boxes of documents. They want to be paid for being forced to concentrate on what is excruciatingly boring, like details of divorces, wills, trusts, taxes, and lots of parties of the first part and parties of the second part.”

  “So, no lawyers yet.”

  “Nope. But I’ll tell you this: I’ve never seen so many visits to doctors in my life.”

  “We were keeping tabs on each other!” I said defensively. “Wasn’t that worth mentioning? Also, we’re trying to find out if Holly mentioned having any medical problems, especially with her heart.”

  “I suppose,” she mumbled. “I had no idea investigative work
was so tedious.” She sipped her latte and seemed to revive. “Let’s try calling the Boatfields again.”

  But when she punched in the number, we got Warren once more. Marla shook her head and pointed at me. I cursed silently, because I hadn’t thought of what to say if he answered. “Um, is Patsie there?” I asked, trying to sound innocent.

  If possible, he was even ruder than he’d been the first time. “Why do you keep calling?” he said, his voice impatient. “I’ll tell her to call you when she gets back. Who is this, anyway?”

  “Goldy the caterer,” I reminded him. I thought fleetingly of Kathie Beliar, but didn’t figure the distinction was worth noting to Warren, who didn’t seem to give a fig salad about who I was. Anyway, it was Patsie who had called me.

  “Yes, yes, all right,” Warren barked. Marla shook her head and pantomimed a corkscrew-next-to-the-ear motion.

  “Actually,” I hazarded, “there’s something else you can help me with, Warren. It has to do with Holly Ingleby. She, Holly . . . gave me a piece of information,” I added, “for you.”

  There was a long pause. “What was it?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft.

  I said, “Uh, uh,” while Marla scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper: Not over the phone! Tell him you want to give it to him in person!

  “This phone is not secure,” I lied breezily. “And anyway, I was only supposed to give this information to you face-to-face,” I said. And then, in what I thought was a stroke of brilliance, I said, “You’ll be at the church fund-raiser tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, yes, Patsie insisted we should go,” he said. “Although I think Father Pete is . . .”

  “What?” I said, genuinely surprised. Everyone liked Father Pete.

  “I’ll tell you when you give me this information,” he said smugly, like we were doing a drug deal.

  This time it was my turn to hang up. Fifteen minutes later, we found some information we’d been looking for.

  “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars as a settlement,” I crowed to Marla. “And an additional two hundred twenty-four thou a year, with cost-of-living increases, for child support. And nine years ago, too! George also was on the hook to pay private school and college tuition, wherever Drew got in. Holy moly! The Jerk was a doctor, and I didn’t get close to that kind of money. I had to work.”

  “The Jerk didn’t have access to inherited funds,” Marla said matter-of-factly. “George did.”

  “I see your point,” I replied as the phone rang. I peered at the caller ID. Boatfield.

  “Apparently, Warren can’t wait until tomorrow night to get his gossip fix,” Marla said.

  But it was not Warren. It was Patsie Boatfield, who sounded out of breath. I dutifully put the phone on speaker.

  We exchanged mournful greetings. We both said how awful the previous evening had been, and how terrible it had been that Holly died. I thanked her for being so kind and helpful.

  After a moment, she asked, “Has anyone reported to you that they were sick after the birthday party last night?”

  “Well,” I said, “not exactly sick. Why?”

  “Oh, I just had horrific nightmares,” she replied. “The worst I’ve had in my life. I thought it was because of Holly dying, but then I thought, ‘This just isn’t normal.’ ”

  “I’m sorry.” I grabbed a clean piece of paper. “What did you have to eat and drink?”

  “Let’s see. Chips and guac, arroz con pollo, salad, the torta, and cake. Plus a beer. It seems to go so well with Mexican food. Do you think there was something in the food? Did other people have problems?”

  “Yes, some guests had nightmares,” I said. I finished scribbling the list, tore off the sheet, and stuffed it into my pocket. “Um, what about Warren?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did he . . . have nightmares?”

  “Not that he told me.”

  “He sounded upset when I called you back. Did he . . . know Holly?” I asked, while Marla made slashing motions across her throat. She was writing furiously on a new piece of paper.

  “Well, I think he did, but that was a long time ago.”

  “How long ago, do you know? We’re trying to piece together her medical history.”

  “I honestly don’t know. The way I heard it, they were at a convention together over in Boulder. Some doctor thing.”

  “Some doctor thing?” I repeated. I was trying to get her to say more, but Marla was flapping the paper in front of me. I finally read what she thrust under my nose: No! No! We want WARREN to tell us what was going on! Patsie won’t know anything, and this will just give him advance warning that we’re onto him, so he’ll shut was all she had written.

  “So Warren and Holly were at a doctor thing in Boulder,” I said. I wondered if it was the same conference that the Jerk and I had attended. Holly and George had been there, too. Since I’d never seen Holly at a subsequent conference, it sounded as if Warren might also have been there. “But you don’t know exactly when this conference was. Can you ask him?”

  “I would,” said Patsie, sounding perplexed, “but he’s in the bathroom and won’t come out.”

  “Is he . . . sick?”

  She paused so long I thought she might have hung up. I peered down at the phone. We were still connected.

  “No,” Patsie Boatfield said. “He’s crying.”

  12

  I’m really sorry,” I said again. “Everyone is just so upset about what happened last night.”

  “That’s true.”

  There was a long silence between us while I tried to think of what to say in the present moment while I endeavored to call up the past. A doctors’ meeting in Boulder. Eighteen years ago, Holly and I had accompanied our spouses to a doctors’ conference in Boulder. We hadn’t actually met each other there, though, which we’d always found to be funny. Our first meeting had been the one where we were cooing to our sons outside the hospital nursery, months later. Holly hadn’t been very interested in the medical convention, no surprise.

  Patsie couldn’t mean the same one from all those years ago, could she?

  “I suppose I should go knock on the bathroom door,” Patsie said.

  I said, “Wait, Patsie. Apart from meeting Holly at a doctors’ conference, did Warren, you know, have any medical knowledge about Holly Ingleby?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, he never mentioned her apart from that one encounter. Should I ask him?”

  “I have no idea,” I said truthfully. “I mean, do you know if she was . . . a patient of his? I mean,” I rushed on, “I know there’s doctor-patient confidentiality, even after death. But the department is desperate to learn Holly’s medical history, and her physician is in Hawaii, out of cell-phone range. And I was providing most of the food last night, so I’m trying to see if she had a medical problem that may have caused what happened to her.” I tried to say this casually, sympathetically even. I did not want to appear to be asking, Was she one of the female clients that he was having sex with? Which, of course, was precisely what I was getting at.

  “I don’t know if she was a patient of his,” Patsie replied. “I do know that she was not the one who reported him to the Colorado Board of Medical Examiners. She is not the reason he lost his license for six months.”

  “Sorry, Patsie, I was just trying to come up with a theory for why Holly collapsed.”

  “I’m sorry, Goldy. People have such prurient interests,” Patsie said, her tone apologetic.

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “All right, okay, I’m just sensitive. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who want all the ghastly details about Warren and all of his supposed indiscretions. He told me, and I believe him, that he made one mistake, with a very needy woman. You know, I want to say to these nosy people, ‘If you’re so interested, go to the library and read the newspaper accounts!’ ”

  “I am not one of those people,” I replied. I did not add, Lena Ingleby said they were having an affair. I just want i
nformation that will help me figure out what happened to my friend.

  “See you tomorrow night, then,” she said, again apologetic. “It’s just that your question hit a nerve.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “You know, I mentioned to a friend that we were thinking about having a midsummer’s eve party? And yesterday, Kathie Beliar called me. Do you know her?”

  I bit the inside of my cheeks and tried not to imagine steam coming out of my ears. “I know her,” I said stiffly.

  “Well, she wanted to cater it! She said if I hired her, she would only charge half of what you were asking.”

  “And what did you say?”

  Patsie laughed. “I told her I was just thinking of doing hamburgers and hot dogs, and I would be doing all the cooking myself! But I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks. And again, I’m grateful you were so helpful last night.” When we signed off, Marla and I exchanged a rueful look.

  She said, “I heard.”

  “Damn Kathie Beliar.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Plus, I do feel sorry for Patsie. Being married to Warren, I mean.”

  “So do I. What she had to say was not what you’d call illuminating,” Marla said. “Adding to our problems, you may have shut Warren up forever.”

  I waved this away. “Trust me. These things progress in stages.”

  “Stages? Like the first act and the second act? And by the way, you’re looking piqued.”

  I shook my head. Talk about hitting a nerve.

  “What have you decided to do about Kathie Beliar and Goldy’s Catering?”

  I felt myself flush with anger. “I don’t know.”

  An hour later, I said I had to take a break.

  “A cooking break,” Marla replied, “if I know you.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “No, go.”

  In the kitchen, I noticed that Julian had thawed and drained some frozen chopped spinach. I decided that even though I’d told Tom I wouldn’t be cooking for the business that day, I would feel better if I did a little experimentation. Say with a hot spinach dip? Marla could deal with a few carbs, couldn’t she? After Julian said he’d thawed the spinach to make a dip recipe he’d found for me on the Internet, I stared at what he’d printed out and decided to make a few changes. First I minced garlic and grated fontina and Parmigiano-Reggiano. Once the garlic was sizzling slowly in melted butter, I snagged cream cheese and Alfredo sauce from the walk-in. This was not going to be a low-fat recipe, but clients never liked those, anyway.